


Beginnings End

by InnerSpectrum



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Violence, Canonical Character Death, Disabled Character, Disabled Mycroft, Enemas, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Explosions, Gay Bashing, Gay Sex, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic Description of Sex, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Interrogation, Kidnapped John, Knifeplay, Knives, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Rape, Shower Sex, Smut, What Was I Thinking?, kidnapped mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 62
Words: 118,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: John Watson loses his temper, leaves Baker Street. Sherlock gets caught in a new intrigue doesn't try to get him back. Yet, out of sight does not mean out of mind for either of them. Can they get back to who they were before they met? Can they get back to each other? Do they even want to? This is a slow burn, but hang in there. It bounces back and forth in their past at the beginning, then settles and works it way forward.This story is slowing turning into a build your own adveture.  There will be various divergents and endings. The tags above covers all the possible endings, thus there are conflicts, but your divergent may vary.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Of course the proper credits to Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss for inspiring such; I wish I had one quarter of their respective imaginations. This is my first time writing fanfic and do not have a beta; please forgive mistakes - I’m still working out the kinks.


	2. Now Let Me Show You Exactly How The Breaking Point Sounds

_Five years previous…_  
  
“You see, but…”

“…you do not observe.” John finished the tired refrain. “Piss off Sherlock! Just piss the fuck off!”

They had spent the past almost seventy-two hours tracking down, serial killer Elliot Durning, with almost no sleep and not much more than coffee and tea in the way of sustenance. In that time John was shot at, Sherlock was likely sporting a concussion and even Lestrade was limping a little from a nasty tumble during the final chase.  Nerves were frayed on all counts; everyone was beyond exhausted.

It was now at half past 1am and Sherlock was in rare scathing form, even for him. Regardless of everyone else’s exhaustion John knew by that opening line Sherlock was about to go off on yet another diatribe. Considering his last one ended mere moments ago where he insulted everyone’s intelligence _yet again_ ; the thought of enduring one minute more of it had John snap.

Greg looked up from the sofa surprised. Granted, he agreed with the sentiment, Sherlock could frustrate a saint to swear like a sailor when in a full on strop, but never had such words come from the mouth of Dr. John Watson before. At least not in reference to Sherlock; not like this. Not like he meant it, meant it in the way everyone else does. Even Sherlock blinked once looking at the heat in his bestfriend’s eyes. Greg glanced at John. 

_Oh yeah, John most absolutely meant it!_

“So uh. I think we’re done here for now, ya.” The Detective Inspector rapidly gathered up files to let the two friends sort it out, they always do. He was just happy Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister because it looked to be a most promising row. “It’s late - see you guys in the morning to finish up?”

Neither man acknowledged his hasty exit in their stare down of each other. 

“John.” Sherlock broke the silence at last. “What is the matter with you?”

“What is the matter? What is the MATTER? Oh what? The great and mighty SHERLOCK HOLMES cannot deduce it? Oh wait, it has to do with human beings, of course you don’t get it, I’m stuuunnned!” You could all but see the word “sarcasm” drip, his voice steadily rose as he continued. “You vivisect people time and time again with your words. Just cut them down with no care AT ALL to their feelings. It’s bad enough when you do it strangers, but you do it to your friends. And never mind all the many ways you find to remind me of how much of an idiot I am. And you do it over and over and over and OVER!”

“John, you of all people – come off it, you understand.” Sherlock stood looking truly perplexed by John’s anger.

“Understanding it, does not make it OKAY!” John yelled the last word, realized he was yelling and stopped, gritting his teeth.

John had always been able to brush off the genius’ idiosyncrasies before. Yet, for the past couple of weeks there has been a marked change in the normally steadfast doctor’s behavior. This new constant rage of his was affecting everything and everyone. Sherlock tried a different tactic, what quickly calmed John down? “Have you spoken to M…”

_Fuck!_

Sherlock had immediately cursed himself, belatedly realized his mistake, unable to take back having been about to say the absolutely worst name he could possibly have brought up right now - Mary.  John’s head spun back to him.

_I must be tired, what was I thinking?_

“John, I’m sorry...” Sherlock began.

John’s eyes went from fire to inferno.  Sherlock had NO time to react.

John’s fist slammed into him, the force of it knocked him over the table onto the couch. His feet hit the floor hard as John kicked the table out of his way and came after Sherlock with a blind fury. He had not tried to protect himself when John’s fists rained down on his body.

Then everything - stopped.

Sherlock heard a crash, like someone had been thrown, but was not sure as black spots had begun to appear. The definitive click of a cocked gun brought him quickly up out of the blackness that had threatened to overtake him.

He opened his eyes to see John, sprawled in his chair by the fireplace, as he stared up the business end of Detective Inspector’s Greg Lestrade’s firearm.

“Lestrade no!” Sherlock wheezed out weakly as he tried to sit up. “Don’t. He... I...I deserved this. He’s entitled.”

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock’s pained bloodied face dumbstruck. “Sherlock, what the hell could even YOU of all people have done to think you he’s entitled this, that you deserve this?!”

Lestrade saw the fire that still raged in John’s eyes and kept the gun trained on him.

_John, please for God’s sake! Please do not give me cause to use this on you._

“I… I killed his baby.” Sherlock slumped back onto the sofa. The shock and horror at his role in the death of John and Mary’s unborn child ran across his face.

“Yes. Yes, you did.”

A heartbroken choke escaped John at those words, and with it the conflagration doused, as he slowly sat up in the chair. Seeing the immediate danger was over, Greg re-holstered his gun and pulled out his phone to call an ambulance.

The absolute silence as the two best friends looked at each other spoke volumes.

“Sod this.” John rose slowly with his hands out in deference to Greg.

“John...” Sherlock started to reach out, saw John’s face and stilled his hand.

Sherlock watched as John looked around the living room. The mess of papers on the floor from the coffee table kicked askance.

_John’s taking it all in, as if he is never going to see it again. No._

Finally, the blue eyes lighted upon the bloodied face of his best friend and Sherlock saw it. He saw as the ravenous fire in those blue eyes was replaced by unyielding ice.

_No. No._

Sherlock _saw_.

And the first tear fell from his crystalline eyes as he pled.

_Oh God, John no!_

“You know what, Sherlock Holmes? You know what? Fuck. You.”

The utter calm in which John laid down those words was all the more gut wrenching for it. Lestrade's mouth fell agape. Sherlock recoiled as is if having been physically struck again.

In fact, Sherlock would have preferred being beat again and again and again than to now have this memory of the glacier stare that glanced over once him more before John turned on his heel and stormed out of the flat; footsteps thundered down stairs he once limped with a cane to climb, the front door slammed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Linkin Park “Greed Lies Misery”


	3. If I Could Start Again A Million Miles Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How bad was it?” Donnery asked finally after their first cans finished.  
> John did not bother to pretend he did not know what was being asked of him. After nearly two years back, he still had not spoken to the crux of it. He looked at the sun slowly descending. He estimated they had a good hour or so before it would be too dark out there. Donnery had sensed John would want privacy and John was grateful for the major’s foresight as he spoke.  
> “Bad.” John reached for another beer.

_Four years previous…_

Doctor Watson pulled the thread of the suture, as he shook his head sadly at the young second lieutenant in his care.

“I cannot believe you, Marcus. We’re in the middle of a sodding hot zone. You’ve been shot at and nothing. You barely got a scratch when a grenade exploded yards from you. Your tour ends in a few weeks; you get to go home! And what is your _sole_ war injury? Is the scar that you’re going to have for the rest of your life from enemy fire? Noooo! It is from falling and having your arm ripped open from a rusty nail. I think this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever treated here!” John tried to look stern at the young man he had come to greatly like and respect.

“And to think you popped that humongous, nasty-arsed pimple on Jerry’s back just last night.” Second Lieutenant Marcus Torley shot back, tried to look chastised. He tried. He tried as hard as John had tried to look stern – which is to say they both failed miserably as laughter finally broke through.  John had a briefest déjà vu as he laughed, but it didn’t last as he shut it down quick.

 _I am not doing that to myself,_ again.

“Thanks, Doc.” Marcus gleefully wiped tears from his eyes with his free hand “Aren’t you almost done yourself? With your tour, Sir?”

“Yah, got another five weeks and a wakeup, officially.”  He snipped the thread and reached for gauze and tape. “I’ll take a bit to visit my sister and her wife, maybe visit with a friend or two, but I’ve already re-upped.”

“Again?” Marcus frowned. “Haven’t you had your fill yet, Sir?”

_Not like there’s much else out there waiting for me – is there?_

“I’m needed here more.” John shrugged, “Seriously, this is going to leave a scar. Not as nasty as it could have been taking your time getting to medical, but it’s going to be noticeable.”  

Marcus saw the storm that flashed through the doctor’s eyes and took the hint.

“Oh, you know the story I’m telling on this is going to be so much better than the truth when I get back to Devonshire. Hmm, maybe something with a scimitar?” Torley grinned as he hopped down from the exam table.

“A scimitar? Really Torley?” John sputtered with laughter as he gave out final instructions, before he pointed to the door. “Keep it clean please; now get out of here.”

_God, was I ever this young?_

“Captain.” Marcus mock saluted and then winced as it was his right arm that was damaged.

“Second Lieutenant.” John shook his head as he returned the salute .

_Wait until the anesthetic wears off._

John cleared the detritus, still shaking his head with amusement before grabbed his gear and turned things over to the next doctor on shift. He donned his shades as he stepped out into the blinding afternoon sun. It had been a quiet couple of weeks of shifts and he was grateful for the respite. It was too early yet for the barracks, he headed for the mess hall instead.

“Captain! Captain Watson! Come quick!” Major Francis Donnery’s jeep barreled down on him. His usually ruddy face more flushed more than usual.

As he saw the look on the burly Major’s face, John didn’t think twice as he hopped onto the back of the jeep before it had come to a complete stop then took off again. He quickly realized where they were headed as the jeep sped to the rear of the base and shook his head groaned.

_Christ! Not again._

“What idiot shot himself this time, Sir?” John grabbed his gear with one hand and grasped the grab bar with the other, just in time to avoid being thrown from the vehicle, as the Major skidded to a stop.

“What?” Donnery frowned, his dark caterpillar brows nearly meeting as he realized how the doctor would take then sudden pick-up. “Oh, no, no, no! Sorry doctor. No medical emergency. _Yet_.”

“Yet?” John jumped from the jeep, his adrenaline piped down a few notches, now that it wasn’t a medical emergency. 

“Well, I may have a coronary. _If you lose_.” Donnery admitted cheekily, his brows waggled.

“No!” John groaned in realization.

“Yes!” Donnery grinned and pat him on the back.

“Christ! Now I almost wish someone was shot.”

<>========<>

An hour later four coins with bullets holes and six with notched ends lined the table in front Major General Anthony Williams. At the table next to Williams, six coins with bullet holes and two with notched ends were in front of Captain Melanie Eades and finally, next to Eades stood Captain John Hamish Watson. Each shooter stood at parade rest, looking straight ahead. John was did his damnedest to not look smug with the ten coins with bullet holes, five warped coins and three coins with notched ends lined on the table in front of him.

Each shooter had twenty coins. The coins with bullet holes were shot with a high powered rifle to fixed targets, the notched coins and Watson’s warped coins indicating a direct hit were air tossed coins - shot with hand guns, whatever coins remaining of the twenty were misses. Watson’s shooting accuracy was beginning to be noted on the base, so in order to handicap him, his coins were noticeably smaller in diameter than the other two shooters – which only added insult to injury considering the results. Majors Ward, Kensington and a near jubilant Donnery stood behind their respective shooters. Major Donnery did not bother to try to hide his smirk.

“I saw your shooting records from when you first enlisted, Watson. Your accuracy was good then; it is even better now.” Lieutenant General Doyle, the unofficial judge of this impromptu contest, grinned as they left the range, “I guess all that running around with your friend Sherlock Holmes kept you in practice, huh?”

_Sherlock._

Luckily John was brought up the rear of the group; only Major Donnery, who walked beside him, saw his jaw clench and a mask fell into place.

“Wait, you’re THAT John Watson?” Eades squeaked as she turned to appraise John anew. “Damn, I’m slow, I didn’t put it together.”

“That’s because _you see, but you do not observe._ I remember that from your blog, John.” Major Kensington grinned. The man had done a fair impression of Sherlock’s deep voice, close enough that John blinked as his heart lurched.

_Sherlock._

“Whatever happened to your blog, Watson? I used to read that, it was entertaining. You haven’t posted in a bit now.”  Williams chimed in.

_Sherlock._

“Uh, I rejoined the army and did not think blogging our position was wise, sir?” John’s face was pleasant enough, but they all heard the unspoken _are you, stupid?_ in his voice. John knew it would have made Sherlock smirk with his customary derision had he been there and could all but hear the genius say “Idiot.”

_Sherlock._

Memories he’d spent the past year burying, tried flooding back. The inside of his lip took the punishment as he shoved them back down, and smiled with the amusement he did not feel while the others laughed.

_Sherlock._

“Oh, right.” Williams brushed it off.

_Sherlock._

“Watson, ride with me?” Donnery angled his head towards the jeep.

John was about to decline. He could use the walk back to clear his mind, but one glance at Major Donnery’s face told him it was not a request.

“Yes, Sir.” With a sigh he tossed his gear in the back and climbed in beside the major.

_Sherlock._

<>==========<>

It was an open secret Donnery had access to beer, he grabbed a case and dragged John off to the opposite end of the makeshift base. Technically, they sat in the jeep on the road just inside of the base to ostensibly celebrate the win. John knew better. He and Donnery were becoming good friends when they were both captains in the Royal Army, before John invalided out. Their friendship had picked-up upon his return. The man seemed to have a sixth sense on John’s deeper moods. Knew when something was wrong even when John was outwardly laughing. Especially when those moods involved the dark curly haired, mercurial eyed, world’s only consulting detective he had left shattered in pieces back in London.  John decided Donnery was someone he could talk to about the deeper stuff, about some of it anyway.

“How bad was it?” Donnery asked finally after their first cans finished.

John did not bother to pretend he did not know what was being asked of him. After nearly two years back, he still had not spoken to the crux of it. He looked at the sun slowly descending. He estimated they had a good hour or so before it would be too dark out there. Donnery had sensed John would want privacy and John was grateful for the major’s foresight as he let out a shuddering breath and spoke.

“Bad.” John reached for another beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Trent Reznor/Johnny Cash “Hurt”


	4. You Did It To Yourself And It’s Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can barely stand to be at to Baker Street anymore. Yet he could stand to be at home even less. Some moments, like now, as he argued with Mary, he imagined he still saw the blood on his hands that wasn’t from the bullet wound.

_Five years previous. Three days before the events in Chapter 1_

John looked around his suburbia dining room and inwardly sighed. What he wouldn’t give to be anywhere but in his own home right now. He acknowledged, how absolutely horrible a thought that was, but it was what it was.  

It’s been two weeks of non-stop tension between him and Mary since… since…the aquarium. Yes, he can say _since the aquarium_. It still hurt far too much to call it by what happened…

_His caution in the aquarium as he tracked Sherlock ‘s voice gone on a vicious deduction rant, that tore into Vivian Norbury in a way that was in bad form even for him._

_His howl as he reached the main viewing room in time to see the bullet that struck his wife._

_How he dropped to Mary’s side seconds after she hit the floor hard as Lestrade’s men restrained Norbury._

_His relief to see the bullet only grazed her side, she would be fine, she merely slipped in her leap to push Sherlock out of the way of Norbury’s bullet._

_His slow unease through full on terror as he saw Mary’s face morph from relaxed to worried to panic as she clutched her abdomen when she  tried to stand._

_The sound that echoed off the walls of the enclosed room as he screamed to call an ambulance._

_The utter shock on Sherlock’s face as what happened registered and there was nothing he could do as he watched his vow to protect them torn asunder._

Sherlock had followed them to the hospital full of sincere remorse and apologies. John took in the words, but he knew he hadn’t accepted them. His best friend’s foibles were the cause of this rift and he did not know how to get past it. He did not know if he wanted to. Yet, having barely lived through it once before, he also knew he did NOT want to be without Sherlock in his life again. It was all so fucking tragic.

 _Why didn’t you just shut the hell up, Sherlock? Just! Shut! Up!_ John asked the heavens yet again, receiving the same absolutely nothing as an answer he received from Sherlock when he first cried the words to him, still in the hospital, after Mary’s miscarriage.

He thought of Mary. The sweet wife, the efficient nurse. The woman who had once been an assassin. He remembered the time before that Christmas with the Holmes’ family. How close he was to walking away from her then under the weight of her reveal. John's bitterness towards her had grown. He spent half his days wanting to scream as he tried to decide.  He still had the cases with Sherlock. He could find a different clinic, if she chose to stay where they both currently worked. He had given leaving her serious consideration, but then Sherlock deduced Mary was carrying their child. A child that was conceived in love in spite of it all, so he had stayed.  

Then the aquarium happened.

John could barely stand to be at to Baker Street anymore. Yet he could stand to be at home even less. Some moments, as he argued with Mary, he imagined he still saw the blood on his hands that wasn’t from the bullet wound.

He looked up at her now, as she sat across from him at the dinner table and stabbed at her food – pushed it around her plate, but not really eating. She was now safe from Magnussen, from A.G.R.A., from Amo, but she had had a long career as an assassin. What else from her past could haunt her? Hurt her?

 _Could haunt her? Hurt her? Not them, hurt_ them _– her._

She was no longer carrying their child. Was there a _them_ to hurt anymore?

John’s phone buzzed. He ignored it.

“Oh, go ahead.” Mary rolled her eyes and rose from the table. “Answer him.”

“Oh, come on! Just don’t, Mary. Don’t start with that shite again.” 

“As mad as you are, you won’t talk to me, but you still go to him!” Mary barely, just barely avoided having screamed the words at her husband. Barely. “What do you want out of me, John?”

Mary smirked when John snatched the phone in exasperation as it buzzed again.

_Lestrade has asked for my help. – SH_

_There’s been a third body, Durning’s MO, it is officially a serial. – SH_

“I want to go back to the way it was before. The way I knew of you before. Before I knew about _…_ ” John waved his hand indicating Mary. “You weren’t supposed to be like - this.”

“This?” Mary stopped and looked at him, her voice was barely above a whisper, but no less threatening for it. “A bit too late for that now, isn’t it?”

“That’s not who I fell in love with.” John said tiredly.

“I’m still the woman you chose to stay with. I’m still your wife who lost our child.” Mary choked back the tears that threatened.

John hadn’t respond. She reached over and took his unfinished plate as well. “What do you WANT John?”

The phone buzzed again.

_I could use your help – SH_

John started to rise.

“That’s right, run John, run to your love!” She was about to say more, but stopped when she saw his face.

“What do I want?” John’s voice was dangerously soft as he stood, pocketed his phone. “Out.”

He grabbed his keys, jacket and left.

<><><><><><><><><><> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from – Linkin Park “Greed Lies Misery”


	5. Click. Click. Boom!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John saw it all unfold in slow motion as he, in what he himself will later recall as one of the most appallingly insane things he had done to date (and he invaded Afghanistan!), ran towards the rifle barrel pointed at Torley, went under the gunman as if sliding for home base...

_Five years previous…_  
  
“Sir?” Torley, whose seat faced the sidewalk suddenly stopped speaking, frowned as something outside caught his attention. John recognized the look; whatever the second lieutenant saw, John knew it was a bit not good.

“What Torley?” Donnery followed the second lieutenant’s gaze and startled, his coffee cup clanged back onto its saucer, the contents spilled out. “Shehyar? Here? Fuck me!”

Both soldiers, glanced at each other and took off.

“What the hell?” Bill looked around as the table rapidly emptied. John, already on his feet, threw money on the table. Years of running around with Sherlock he was instinctively prepared for sudden take offs.

“Sorry Bill.” John threw over his shoulder, as he ran behind them.

“…Confirmed, I can see the scar. We’ve got eyes on him.” Major Donnery was speaking in his phone when John caught up to him. Second Lieutenant Marcus Torley had already crossed the street, as they walked on their side of the pavement. John walked away from Donnery as he ignored the major’s insistence he stay out of it. It took John less than a second to spot the target.  

Erick Michael Sahrain, the only child of an English and Israeli missionary doctors, had served with Doctors Without Borders in the Middle East. He earned the nicked named Shehyar, the Lucky One, after a sleeper cell, setting up for a terrorist act, accidentally set off a series of bombs that took out several homes late one night, including his family home, leaving him the only survivor and with a scar that ran down his face from eyebrow to nearly his jaw as a memento. Easily recruited by a rogue terrorist cell, the then young teen was convinced it was doing of the British government that he was an orphan.  He rebuked all parts of his British heritage, changing his name to Abdul Baari Sahrain. Now nearing forty years of age, he had risen to third in command of one of the more notorious terrorist cells John knew was high up on the government’s watch list when he served. 

Tall and solidly built, Sahrain wore his hair long and loose, but as he moved through the crowd, the hair moved, the scar easy enough to make out once you knew what you were looking for. Still, in khaki’s and dark polo shirt, trainers and a UCL backpack – he looked for all the world like any other older uni student, bustling about the city.    

_How the hell was he walking freely on a London street in the early afternoon?_

John automatically reached behind for his Browning, belatedly remembered it was locked-up at Baker Street, when he noticed a shift in Sahrain’s movement and knew the terrorist had spotted the military men tailing him. Sahrain increased his pace for a bit, reached a curb, then took off on a run. 

_Shit! Where the hell is he going?_

John took off, he could see Torley sped ahead as Sahrain ran between cars and headed toward John’s side of the street. Torley in mid-leap to tackle the man nearly face-planted, when in a move that would have made any Arsenal player envious, Sahrain pivoted and took off in another direction.

_How is he by himse…_

“John!”

“Watson!”

“Shite!”

It all happened simultaneously as Donnery and Torley yelled, he cursed and a spidey sense told John to duck just as it occurred to the former soldier that someone like Sahrain would likely have an accomplice somewhere nearby. The crowd screamed as they ran out of the way of said accomplice as he drew an assault rifle out of a duffle bag, .

John saw it all unfold in slow motion as he, in what he himself will later recall as one of the most appallingly insane things he had done to date, ( _and he invaded Afghanistan!_ ), ran towards the rifle barrel pointed at Torley, went under the gunman as if sliding for home base. By some miracle he grabbed hold of the dangling shoulder strap and effectively snatched the assault rifle out of the man’s hands.

Donnery, on John’s six, cold-cocked the understandably surprised gunman as John came up to a shooting crouch with the rifle trained on Sahrain as the man reached the pavement.

“Sahrain stop!”

Sahrain switched directions instead, took a cell phone out of his pocket as he swung the back pack from one shoulder. 

Pedestrians had scattered everywhere and blocked John’s shot. He got up and started running again. Seeing the familiar red and blue circle ahead, John stomach plummeted as he knew exactly where Sahrain was headed.

He had maybe two blocks to stop him at the most.  Too many people were running panicked around him.

_SHITE!_

“OUT OF MY WAY!” He heard Torley scream beside him as if the sight of John running with an assault rifle poised to shoot, down a busy London street in mid-afternoon alongside a soldier in full fatigues, was not enough incentive enough.  Then again, perhaps it was as a bit more space opened before them, but it was not enough.

John saw steps ahead and took them, getting Sahrain in his sights as he climbed. The erstwhile captain didn’t think about it as he fired twice.

The first shot clipped Sahrain in the shoulder, the knapsack slipped as his body jerked.

The second shot took out Sahrain's knee and he went down, barely two doors away from the entrance to a Tube station.  John dropped to his knees in relief and felt the step buckle slightly under his weight.

 _Huh?_ John looked down.

His “steps” were a café chair, its accompanying table and the hood of an idling car.  He turned and apologized to its stunned owner whose hands were up in surrender as John slid down to catch up to Torley who had not stopped running and reached the downed terrorist first.

Sahrain sat on the ground, the most unpleasant smile on his face as John approached, rifle still trained on him. The two sized each other up as Torely checked him for weapons. The only thing found on him was his phone, the terrorist's face did a little anxious twitch.

“Don’t open that! It may be a switch of some sort.”John warned.

Torley nearly dropped it.

Seeing Metro police as the rapidly descended on them John made sure the safety was on before he stepped away from Shahrain and lowered the rifle.

“{Do you think you have won, little man? There are more like me for another day.}” Sahrain laughed not expecting John to understand.

“{Perhaps. If they cross my path, I will take them down then as I’ve taken you down today.}” John knew his Pashto was beyond rusty, but enough made it through the language barrier to at least stop the laughter, if not completely wipe the smile from the man’s face.

_Shite! What am I missing?_

“Captain...” Torley who had opened the knapsack looked in worry up at John. John looked inside at the timer counting down. He glanced at Erick Michael Sahrain, who full out grinned.

Again, John didn’t think about it as he pulled out his cell phone, speed dialed the very last number he thought he’d call again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Limp Bizkit “Click. Click. Boom.”


	6. When It Gets Cold Outside and You Got Nobody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...You will not return to Baker Street. You will leave London. You will leave him. You will not have anything to do with Sherlock Holmes again. Ever.”

_Five years previous._

“Oh dear God! I haven’t heard of anything that half-arsed since John set off those firecrackers in the latrine and scared the literal shite out of that boffin from Essex! How the hell has he not been sectioned out?” Bill Murray, not the actor, wiped tears of laughter from his face. Major Francis Donnery simply waved a hand as if to say _who knows?_   Grinned as he regaled the table with tales of his second lieutenant’s antics. John simply shook his head as he tried to get his own laughter under control.

Though Sherlock would certainly have argued otherwise, as far as John was concerned, it was pure coincidence John was sulking down the street when Bill spotted him from a diner window just as he, Donnery and Marcus Torley, the second lieutenant being discussed, were sitting to dine.

“It just sort of _happened_. In my defense, the moon was full, and I _was_ left unsupervised.” Torley barely got the words out as he and Donnery broke out in fresh bursts of laughter.

They were the perfect distraction from the pain running through John’s soul as he tried to figure out what to do, at least they _were_ …

John grimaced in memory at _it just sort of happened_. Hearing the words in Sherlock’s rich baritone as they pondered serviettes for his and Mary’s wedding. The pain crashed back along with the last thing Mycroft said when the Iceman finally caught up to him. 

<>==========<>

John knew it was going to happen. He had not tried to hide, there was no point. He simply waited for Death to catch up to him.

It was now three days after John walked out on Mary; barely fifteen hours since he left 221b. His phone had rung or buzzed incessantly throughout what was left of the night until the battery died.  He spent it walking around London as he waited for the inevitable.

> _Greg called, My God John WHAT HAVE YOU DONE???_ – MW
> 
> _Where are you? Are you okay?_ – GL
> 
> _Jesus John!! It’s bad. Where are you?_ – MW
> 
> _I didn’t know you left Mary, what the hell mate? He’s bad off, John. Call me._ – GL
> 
> _Lestrade is worried. I told him you just needed to walk it off._ – MW
> 
> _Greg says HE knows. M met him at the hospital. He saw it all John! Run!_ – MW
> 
> _Get to my place or my office at NSY if you can, give him time to cool down._ – GL
> 
> _Now I’m worried. I know I said run, but oh God please call!_  – MW
> 
> _John call me, let me know you’re alive, please, I’m begging you! PLEASE!_ – MW

When John noticed the lightening skies and he had made it to see day break he was stunned.

_Okay, he’s going to draw this out and make me suffer. I deserve this - I would do the same in his shoes._

  
He knew she would be at the hospital. He responded only to Mary once he was home and the phone had charged enough.

 _Alive. Don’t know for how long. You know there’s no point in running. He WILL find me._ – JW

  
He turned his phone off after pressing send; then showered, packed a bag and checked into a hotel. He had no idea how or when, but he didn't want Mary to be in the position of having to clean up his blood in their home.

John had just walked out of the hotel to head to the hospital and was not surprised at all as a familiar black sedan followed along.

_Took long enough._

He stood facing the car, hands at his side and waited. Nothing.

 _Right. He’s not going to kill me out here in plain sight. Still, there’s no way in hell I’m getting in_ that _car. I’m not that suicidal._

John had started walking again when the door opened and Death, in the guise Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft Holmes, got out instead. The elder Holmes brother, the “minor government official” with the power to make John Watson disappear to the point that even his own sister would steadfastly deny ever having any knowledge of John, stepped onto the sidewalk. Impeccable as always in a three-piece suit, his ever present umbrella dangled from one arm, he rose to full height before him. John had not seen that level of ice directed at him from the man’s eyes since the day they had first laid eyes on each other in that warehouse ages ago. It was only because he had come to know the man just enough in the interim years that he noticed as the tiniest bit of approval flashed in the Iceman’s eyes, as John stood his ground, before the returned to the glacial stare.  

“I am not going to lie to you, Watson. If I wanted you dead, Mary would be a widow as we speak and I would bear the fallout without a single care; you know this. I know you got into A& E early this morning and saw him. I wanted you to. I wanted you see the results of what you did to him.” Mycroft looked down on the doctor. John imagined, were this a cartoon, icicles would have formed and then fall in crystalline shards from the frosty words. 

_Damn my fucked-up gallows humor. I must have a death wish. Could it have picked a worse time or person in which to kick in?_

John had already figured out Mycroft knew about him seeing Sherlock, after the fact, when the expected guard to Sherlock’s room had a phone call and conveniently stepped away moments after John peaked around the corner from the emergency stairs. He entered the room and fell to his knees in shock at the nearly unrecognizable sight of Sherlock. He forced himself up, to come closer, to own up to everything he had done to his best friend: ribs broken, visible bruising on his arms, right hand in a cast, one of his eyes is swollen shut in blunt eye trauma and worst of all Sherlock had slipped into a coma during the ambulance ride over. John spent over half an hour there, much longer than any bathroom run should ever be, as he cried at Sherlock’s bedside, before sneaking out the way he entered.  

“You stand before me a condemned man, one already resigned to his inevitable fate. A big part of you actually _wants_ to die for what you did to my brother, yet knows death is the least of what you deserve for it. You cannot _begin_ to fathom how much I am fighting within myself to not give you that which you so richly deserve.” Mycroft’s voice turned nasty at this and John visibly flinched; ground his teeth to suppress the sob that desperately wanted to escape. He could barely meet the elder brother’s eyes, but he had, he had to take it. And he would take it; he would take all of it and so much more, because he deserved this in spades.

“You are alive for three reasons: I have come to know you and I understand now that you were under gargantuan levels of stress between Mary, the take down of the serial killer, Durning, and from what I learned from the detective inspector, one impressive lambasting from my brother. I. Don’t. Care. I would have you killed for what you’ve done regardless. I know you and Sherlock are so used to them, you both tend to forget the cameras are there. Being awakened after half one in the morning, and having to witness that attack on my baby brother and telling you it was, _an unpleasant thing to see_ , does not cut it!” Again John flinched, as Mycroft continued.

“Gregory and Mary have begged me not to. Mary groveled at my feet in Sherlock’s hospital room. She, a former CIA trained assassin, _groveled_ for your pathetic little life. That is how much she still loves you. I still do not care and would have you killed, regardless.” The British Government removed an invisible offending speck from his suit sleeve, his face placid, as he spoke to John for all the world as if they were reminiscing on erstwhile fantasies of payback to a middle school nemesis they once abhorred, as opposed to why John was not already a memory. John knew the truth of this; Mary and Greg Lestrade were not in any way near important enough to Mycroft to keep his sorry ass alive.

Though John’s usual stance had always been at a casual parade rest – legs slightly apart, hands loosely held behind his back - today, they both knew the doctor stood this way to hide his hands – hands that clearly showed their side of what happened only hours ago – from Mycroft’s sight, lest the elder brother forget in a fit of his barely contained rage that he doesn’t want to kill John for that third reason. 

“The ONLY reason you still breathe Doctor John Hamish Watson, former captain of the Northumberland Fusiliers, is because I know, however my brother may or may not feel about you when he wakes up from this, I do know he would not want you dead. But I do not want you near my brother. You can visit him once more, whether he is awake or not, to say good-bye however you see fit, but after that, once you walk out of that hospital door that is it. You have one week. You will not return to Baker Street. You will leave London. You will leave _him_. You will not have anything to do with Sherlock Holmes again. _Ever._ ”

He did not say the words, but _do you understand?_ was clearly implied at the end of it while Mycroft calmly inspected the ferrule of his umbrella as he waited for the impact of his words to sink in. Not trusting himself to speak John finally nodded as he realized Mycroft waited for a response. Upon receiving it Mycroft turned, walked back to the waiting sedan and got in. Mycroft rolled down a window and dropped his Icemen mask so John can see his scathing expression.

“And John, know this: come near him again? I. Will. Kill. You.”

The window rolled up as the car drove away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Maroon 5 “Harder to Breathe.


	7. Forget About The Pain and Walk Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One door opens...

_Five years previous…_  
  
Mycroft was at the hospital, he held his brother's hand, careful of the pulse oximeter, when his phone buzzed. He stared at the phone in stunned disbelief upon seeing the ID of the caller.

“You have GOT to be kidding…” Mycroft’s voice was held a note of thunder as he answered.

“I just put a bullet in the shoulder and another in the knee of one Erick Michael Sahrain. We are on the pavement, less than a block from a Tube station, standing in front of a bomb set to go off in less than thirty minutes. I know you don’t particularly care about me getting blown up personally, but I’m with Major Francis Donnery and Second Lieutenant Marcus Torley of the Royal Army and perhaps they, and oh I don’t know, the rest of the citizenry and sundry in the immediate vicinity might be worthy of being spared this. Check your bloody cameras.” John gave Mycroft the cross streets and rang out.

Taken aback, Mycroft had yet think to press the speed dial for her when Anthea entered the hospital room carrying a laptop already live streaming the events, “Mr. Holmes? We have a situation and you are _not_ going to believe who …”

She stopped when she saw her boss’ face, she glanced at the laptop, then back at Mycroft, as he looked at his phone incredulously.

“I take it back; you absolutely _are_ going believe who is in the middle of it.”

<>==========<>

In the immediate aftermath of Sahrain and his accomplice’s capture, Major Donnery, and especially Second Lieutenant Torley, sang John’s praises to anyone at New Scotland Yard, then MI6 who would listen. Donnery boasted, “I would have John Watson back serving the British Army again in a heartbeat if they would have him!” In spite of it, the media gave praise to the “Amazing heroics of two members of the British Royal Army and an unknown private citizen.” John had steadfastly asked not to be mentioned. He had endured more than enough media coverage being Sherlock Holmes sidekick. Being the _Reichenbach Hero_ had brought Sherlock nothing but trouble in the form of Jim Moriarty. John did not want the mantle of _The Man Who Took Down Erick Michael Sahrain_ following him for the rest of his life.

Though a number of people claimed to have taken cell phone videos of various parts of the event, either none of them could find it anymore, or there was some kind of failure to their respective devices that corrupted the video to the point of being useless.  The only evidence of John’s participation were the collected CCTV images now in the hands of minor government officials.

Mycroft had said leave London, not all of the UK or Europe. John was pondering options remotely of interest to him when Anthea walked into the clinic as John was locking up for the day with another option in which he had less than forty-eight hours to accept. John smelled Mycroft’s touch all over it. He knew it begrudgingly came as a pseudo thank you for the Sahrain takedown and it was likely the absolute last nicety he would ever get from the Iceman.

John jumped at it, signing the papers.

“It is my honest opinion while _he_ will eventually forgive you, though I doubt HE ever will. This may be the best, perhaps only good option left considering the man you are.” There was no question which he was which as Anthea gathered the papers into a folder. They both stood as business was completed. She nodded, about to walk away when she turned back and extended her hand to him. John realized, in all the time of knowing her, _if you can call being escorted from Point A to Point B with very little verbal exchanges of import in between them as knowing_ , this would be the first time, and likely the only time, he would ever have physical contact with the enigmatic woman that was Mycroft Holmes’ right hand. He understood it was her way of saying how sorry she was that it all came to this. Both of their smiles were heart-wrenchingly bittersweet as he took her hand in his and nodded once in acceptance of the unspoken. When he let go, she lifted her hand into a smart salute.

“Good-bye Captain Watson.”

“Good-bye Anthea.”

John returned the salute and watched as she walked out of the door as quietly as she had come in.

He looked around the clinic realizing with a pang, he would not have a chance to tell anyone he would not be coming back.

_It’s better this way, no questions._

John stopped to write a couple of notes leaving them for the appropriate people. He thought about the people he couldn’t simply leave notes for – his sister Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade – and picked up the phone. She was visiting her sister when everything happened, but he knew she’d come home for she was one of the calls to him that night. He could not go back to Baker Street to speak to his _not your housekeeper_ in person, and he accepted the expected haranguing before she burst into tears over the phone, but he could not leave London without speaking to her.

It was late when he was through with Hudders, but Greg was still at NSY when John called. He met with Lestrade over a pint. John promised to stay in touch with one of the few people he called a good friend as best as he was able.

That only left two people...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Wicked Wisdom “Yesterday”


	8. Try To Make The Worst Seem Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...another door closes.

_Five years previous…_

John walked in, placed his keys in the tray by the door and hung his jacket. He heard music, a sullen descant that suited his mood well. He followed it to the living room where Mary sat in a side chair as she nursed a drink. He noted she was used an old fashioned glass from the crystal set received as a wedding present. The last time she used it was the night they came home after she first handed him the A.G.R.A. thumb drive.

_As if, she’s never going to get the chance to use it again._

“Captain.” She raised the glass in pseudo salute. There was no malice in it, just a statement of fact. 

 _She knows?_ He was not entirely surprised and felt partially relieved. 

“Mycroft? Or Anthea?” He made himself a drink before he sat across from her, automatically moved a pawn on the chess table between the two chairs.

“Mycroft’s idea.” She, just as automatically, moved a piece in response to his. “Anthea came here under the pretense of looking for you, as if they did not already know where to find you today. I think she wanted to know from me if you would take the offer before she wasted her time. I told her it was owt for nowt and you’d be a damned fool not to.”

“I have to leave day after.” John said after a while.

“I know.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know.”

They played on in silence. Eventually, with only a few pieces left, John saw the inevitable unfolding on the board and tipped his white king over.

Mary accepted the win, nodded quietly. The empty crystal short tumbler dangled between her fingers for a brief moment before it flew through the air and smashed into pieces against a wall. John barely blinked, somehow expected it.

“Did you ever really love me, John?” She looked to him with tired eyes. “Before…everything.”

“You know I did, Mary. A part of me still does.”  He answered honestly.

“But not like…before.” It wasn’t a question.

“No, not like before.” He answered anyway.

John went to the kitchen for the broom and dustpan, returned to clean up the larger pieces of the shattered glass. Mary retrieved the hoover for the smaller pieces.

When they were done, by some unspoken understanding John sat on the sofa as she leaned into his shoulder, his arm around her, his thumb idly rubbed her arm.

It all felt so familiar.

It all felt so wrong.

“I didn’t do it on purpose, you know. Get pregnant.”

She was supposed to have been taking birth control. They, well he, had wanted to wait a couple of years first. He wondered now if it was just one more lie of her many.

“You don’t believe me.” She accused.

“Moot point now, isn’t it?” He shrugged.

“You would have stayed for the baby; wouldn’t you? Although…” Mary shook her head sadly leaving the sentence unfinished.

_Although you knew I didn’t want to be here anymore?_

“I stayed didn’t I?” He answered instead.

“Always the good man.” Mary sighed.

“I’m not a good man, Mary. I’m not Moriarty or Magnussen, but no, I’m not good.” John shook his head in denial. He pulled away from Mary, and stood, slowly began to pace. Mary knew this tell of her husband and braced herself.

“I cheated. I cheated on you, Mary.”

Mary was looking at the floor when John said the words. She could not bring herself to look at him as she tries to process it. She went over it in her mind and could only think two things so she said them.

“How? When?’

“Mrs. Conrad came for her annual with her granddaughter, Gina who had a zipper bag of jelly beans and insisted that I take a small handful. I put them in a tissue with the intention of binning them later, but I found them still in my pocket while on the bus on my way home. I was a tad peckish, so I thought I’d have a couple of them since they were there. It turns out they were some of those Harry Potter type beans and lucky me had popped the dirt and vomit flavored beans in my mouth. I don’t know what my face looked like as I spat them out, but she saw my reaction and started laughing. Apologizing to me, but laughing nonetheless. Once she was done wiping her tears from laughing at me she offered me breath mints for which I was most grateful. After explaining about the beans and thanking her for the mints, I went to my paper and said nothing else to her. She handed me her number when getting off the bus. I should have thrown her number away, I know, but I didn’t. I texted her. We texted back and forth for a few weeks. The only time saw her was that first day on the bus and the day after, when I stopped texting her. It was all texts. Only texts.”

John had stopped pacing, but he was still moved as he spoke, folded and unfolded his arms across his chest, pulled at the cuffs of his shirt and cardigan, hands in and out of his pocket, for all of that he did not take his eyes from her, though Mary had yet to look at him.

”What made you stop?”  She asked as she still looked at the floor.

“You became pregnant. I texted my goodbye the day we confirmed it.” John sat across from her, elbows on his knees, “I wanted to be a good example for our child. A good example is not one who cheats.”

“But you said it was only texts?” Mary had started a slow rock in her seat. John knew that tell and braced himself.

“It was texts, only texts. But I wanted… I wanted more…” John admitted.

“When the fuck did you even have time to have a text… a textationship?” Mary shook her head, incredulous that she’d even asked it. 

“Mostly in the nighttime.” He winced, knowing how bad this was going to be, but unable to lie.  

“When you were with Sherlock? Does he know?”

“God no! He’d deduce something like that in a heartbeat if I did it in his presence.”

“How then? You texted her as you traveled to and from Baker Street? From our home? What? You texted when…” Mary’s head slowly lifted as she worked out the possibilities, saw it on his face, “You son of a bitch! You didn’t…”

She stopped, took a deep breath, took another. “Get out.” 

“Mary…” He stood.

“You lay in our bed, while I’m asleep next to you, and you text with another woman?!” She cut him off, her voice rapidly rose until she nearly screamed.

John did not take his eyes from her, he did not speak, but this is her husband, she read all that he did not say in his face. This is his wife and he saw when her eyes went from indifference to rage.

“GET OUT!”

“Mary.” He began again, but realized there was nothing he could possibly say that would not make it much worse.

She slowly stood and stalked over to him. He saw it it coming, but did nothing to stop it as Mary delivered an uppercut that staggered him slightly. 

“Get out before it’s not Mycroft you have to worry about right now.” Her voice was now dangerously low after the scream. She was far too calm, too controlled. John saw her expression as he rubbed his jaw. He sighed getting his coat, keys and wallet in hand again. 

“Good bye, Mary. I am sorry.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Lady Gaga “Million Reasons”.
> 
> “Owt for nowt” in some UK slang, is the American equivalent of saying “making something out of nothing”.


	9. What Have I Become, My Sweetest Friend?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Simply killing me would have been the easy way out. I don’t deserve that mercy."

_Five years previous…_

John entered the room. Unlike the first night when he had sneaked in, flowers were everywhere. Mostly from fans and others. Sherlock’s true friends would know better. They knew the consulting detective had a sensitive nose and the scent coming from so much flora had to be bothering him even in a coma. Then again, John would not put it past Mycroft to hoping an over stimulation of the olfactory senses would annoy Sherlock awake. Still, John could not help himself as he took the first fifteen minutes and reorganized the myriad arrangements as far away from Sherlock as possible without throwing them away.

Finally satisfied he faced Sherlock from the foot of the bed. They had dressed him in his own pyjamas, though the doctor in John easily saw the bandages wrapped around Sherlock’s torso underneath.

“ _I’m sorry_ is so insufficient for all that is going through me right now, Sherlock. But I am so sorry, so incredibly sorry. This is so much, so much… You have no idea how our chance meeting through Mike Stamford changed my life. I know, I honestly _know_ , I would not be here today, had we not met. You had saved me. And that’s the tragic comedy of it, isn’t it, Sherlock? So many had us as a couple, Irene Adler, hell even Mrs. Hudson had us had us sharing a bed at first sight.  Everyone saw it. _Everyone_. Everyone, but me. So stuck in my ways, so stuck in convention. Choosing to share a flat with a clearly eccentric stranger I barely knew 24 hours was against convention. Shooting the cabbie in cold blood over you was against convention. Being in the magnificent your sphere of influence that is your life was against convention. Of course by then I should have foreseen I was going to go against convention once more by falling in love with you, but I hadn’t. That one final deduction, I did not make until it was too late. Until I thought you were dead. You had saved me, but your death then ripped me to shreds. I had resigned myself to the fact that the special thing you and I had, the bond, and yes, the love we had, it could never happen, would never happen for me. And fool that I was, I did not tell you so when I had the chance. I felt I deserved the loss of you for not having the guts to love you when I had the chance. It took meeting Mary to pull all those shreds back together again. I was – I am so grateful to her for that. She was so good to me, Sherlock, so good for me, she was. And I would have been blissfully happy with her as we were. I really would have been. But then when you came back. I was grateful you were alive, but I was so angry, so hurt at being deceived, it took a long time for me to _be_ happy you were back. The moment I shaved for you – yes, I can admit that now, you prat, I shaved for you - I think Mary knew then she was going to be second best in my heart, even if I myself did not know it yet. But I had already proposed to her by then; I was already set on that path. Convention won again – no, I can’t lie to myself, chicken shite me let convention win again.”  

John’s low bitter laugh sounded as hollow as he felt.   At some point while he spoke John had touched the bed near Sherlock’s ankle. John wanted to touch him through the sheet; desperately wanted some kind of physical contact with the man, even if he was going to be the only one between the two of them who knew it. Yet, the violation of privacy against his body, to touch his body in such a manner now, is repulsive to him. The weight of the beating crushes on him.

“Then Magnussen happened and Mary’s truths came out. I thought I married a gentle, but funny nurse with a steel spine. I didn’t know that steel was molded out of assassin’s bullets. Still, I tried to honor what I promised her that Christmas at your parents’ home. I tried, Sherlock. But it seemed like once the secret was out, so did more of that side of her. There were times I would come in from running a case with you and she and I would get into a row. She would sometimes cut her eyes at me in a certain way and I’d see it, the assassin for hire. Still it was my bed, I tried to keep laying in it, but I was coming to realize I could not do it anymore. I still loved the Mary I fell in love with. I think you knew that, but in no way wanted to influence me, so said nothing, which in retrospect I realize said everything. I was pretty close to asking for a divorce, I think you knew that, too. I think you were waiting for it, maybe even hoping for it? I don’t know, but your face when you deduced she was pregnant. It was a quicksilver change, had I not been looking at you at that moment I would have missed it, but to find out I was going to be father Sherlock, you knew I would not leave her then, didn’t you? The disappointment before you smiled, congratulated us – I saw it. And still, later you extended your vow from the wedding to the three of us, that you’d always protect us. Always.”

John’s smile was genuine in the memory of it, but slowly faltered as other memories come in.

“Then Ajay, the whole Vivian Norbury and the aquarium happened. Mary saved your life Sherlock. Saved it at the cost of our baby’s. I was so mad, so upset with you both. At her for not thinking of the baby when she leapt to save you and at you for causing the situation. One would think a woman pointing a loaded gun at you might make you not want to piss her off, but your sense of self-preservation has always been absolute, absolute shite. I know you were furious at what Norbury had almost succeeded in doing to us and you let her have it in spades. You and your deductions, and your mouth! Yes, I blamed you most of all at first, but I blamed Mary too. And it got ugly between her and me then. What little I had left for Mary was gone with the baby we lost. I still love her, I do, but I’m not in love with her. I will never be in love with her because my heart belonged elsewhere. She knew it, and by then I knew it. It all came to a head the night you texted about Durning’s third victim. You and I hit the ground running on the case and in the three days we chased Durning I never got to tell you I walked out on her. I never got to tell you that I love you. I never said that I want to be with you. And none of that excuses what I’ve done.”

John ran his hand along the side of the bed near Sherlock’s leg until he reached the long fingers, sticking out of the cast. It’s a fresh heartbreak as John realized this is the hand the Sherlock used to hold the violin. He thought of how easily, how smoothly the man would swing the instrument to his chin, the long graceful fingers cradling the neck, the fret.  The doctor in him knew it was minor brake of the ulna, the bone will knit and heal, and he will play again. It did not help the man that stood there now, saw the result of the injuries he inflicted upon a man he called his best friend. He took stock anew of the damage a few minutes of his unchecked rage had done. 

“Mycroft is right. Simply killing me would have been the easy way out. I don’t deserve that mercy. I don’t deserve your love, even if you have any left for me after this. I love you, I will always love you, but I do not deserve you.”

Careful of the cast, John gently lifted Sherlock arm and sat next to him, holding his Sherlock’s fingers, fingers now wet with John’s tears as he broke down at last.

<>==========<>

Down the hall in the visitor’s waiting area, Mycroft coldly watched on his laptop as John entered the room. He worked on other things as always, he did not want to be distracted by, nor cared to listen to whatever the gormless doctor had to say, he put the volume on mute and shrank the window. He glanced at it from time to time, for sound really wasn’t needed as he watched John’s shoulders heave as the doctor bawled over his brother’s damaged hand. The man’s cries must have had some volume for it brought Nurse Ratched to quietly peek in the room as she passed on her rounds. He turned the volume up again, heard as John took a ragged breath to gather himself together upon hearing the room door open. Seeing John in his grief, she nodded once and left the man to it. When John lifted his head slightly, there was no denying he was a wreck. The last time John looked that wretched was that first night when he thought Sherlock had died. Mycroft had felt sorry for the man then. Not sorry enough to tell him the truth, but sorry nonetheless.

Mycroft did not feel sorry now.

John slid to the floor and lifted his head.

_Was he praying?!_

Mycroft maximized the window, upping the volume; still he could barely hear John’s ragged pleas to the heavens.

“Heal him. Undo what I did to him and make him whole again. Let him solve cases again. Let him play violin again. Let him be the dickheaded prat again. I’m going back out there. Put me in whatever hell you think I deserve as punishment, but let him come back. Let him be _him_ again. The world doesn’t need me, but it needs him. Please!” His head dropped to his chest as he rocked back and forth in a low keen.

A crash from the nurse’s station, drew Mycroft’s attention momentarily. When he looked back again John was standing and had Sherlock’s hand in his again. He kissed the fingers before he gingerly placed it back on the bed.

“For what it's worth William Sherlock Scott Holmes, if I never see you again in this life, everything we did, everything we had these past few years, even with your leaving and your return, it was worth it.”

John dried his face and walked to the door. He turned one last time to the man in the bed, love and anguish written all over his face. Mycroft could not hear him, but read his lips.

“Goodbye Sherlock.”

Head down, arms grasped tightly around himself as though literally holding himself together, John did not see Mycroft in the waiting area as he walked out of Sherlock’s life.

He watched the departing man, Mycroft's eyes narrowed as recalled John’s words.

“Put me in whatever hell you think I deserve as punishment.”

_Oh, you want hell, Watson? You’ll have it._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Trent Reznor/Johnny Cash “Hurt”.


	10. I Close My Eyes Only For A Moment, But The Moment’s Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He awakens...

_Five years previous…_

Sherlock awakened in stages ---

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly in the dark room, immediately winced and wrinkled his nose as the scents of antiseptic and too many flowers and the semi-white noises of the machinery attached to him came to him.

_Hospital then, King's College. Night. John?_

Someone held his hand. Mycroft asleep by his side.

_Mycroft? Not John?_

_Where is John?_

He could only think of one reason why Mycroft would at his side and not John.

_No!_

Mycroft felt the minute shift in his brother’s presence, but in the two seconds it took for him to wake up, register what it meant and look up at his brother, Sherlock had slipped under again.

<>==========<>

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly in the dark room, immediately winced and wrinkled his nose as the scents of antiseptic and too many flowers and the semi-white noises of the machinery attached to him came to him.

_Hospital then, King's College. Night No._

No the room wasn’t dark, there were bandages on his eyes, that dulled the light.

_Hello?_

“Sherlock?”

He heard his name and turned his head to the sound. The bandages were slowly removed and he saw his brother’s upset, yet relieved face.

_Why are you upset, Mycroft?_

Sherlock had not realized he was not speaking out loud, and Mycroft’s face went from relief to worry.

_Where’s John?_

As soon as he thought the name it all came back to him and he was emotionally back at Baker Street feeling his best friend’s wrath. Mycroft saw it in his baby brother’s face.

“Sherlock, No! Delete it!” Mycroft cried. 

Sherlock flinched to blows that no longer fell.

“DELETE IT!” Mycroft grabbed his arm tightly, dug his fingers in, tried to give him something to focus on.

Sherlock doves into his mind palace snatched the painful memories, threw them into drawers and closets slammed them. He will examine them another time when he’s better able to cope, but not then.  The last memory he shoved away.

_"You know what, Sherlock Holmes? You know what? Fuck. You.”_

He went out again.

<>==========<>

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly in the dark room, immediately winced and wrinkled his nose as the scents of antiseptic and too many flowers and the semi-white noises of the machinery attached to him came to him.

_Hospital then, King's College. Afternoon._

He felt a strong hand massaged, bent and flexed his leg.

_Physiotherapy? Good idea, John._

_No, not John._

“Hello beautiful.” A male voice chuckled “I heard you were coming in and out.  Are you staying with us this time?

Sherlock shifted his eyes to the voice.

He shook his head in the negative, this time felt himself as he slipped under again, but not before heard as the therapist whispered in his ear.

“I’ll wait. I want you awake watching me, knowing me, before I watch you die.”

<>==========<>

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, blinking from the overhead light in the dark room, immediately wincing and wrinkling his nose as the antiseptic smells and the semi-white noises of the machinery attached to him come to him.

_Hospital then, _King's College._ Night._

He felt a sense of déjà vu at this, but mentally shook it off as he made a quick assessment of his injuries.

Something was wrong.

 _You mean other than you being in a hospital again, you git_?

He laughed inwardly at his own approximation of John’s…

 _John_.

_No. There’s no John._

And everything he thought he hid in his mind palace crashed to the forefront. Memories looked very much like loose sheets of paper in hurricane force winds. Sherlock choked down on it hard, gritted his teeth between short panicked gasps, as he rapidly blinked.

He sensed rather than saw as an arm reached up and turned off the overhead light, felt the hand that tightened on his upper arm. He knew that touch and turned his head to it. Mycroft stood next to him, silently took measured breathes to his erratic ones. The two locked eyes and Sherlock took a measured breath with his brother. He felt the twinge in his body as he tried to bring his breathing under control, he did not focus on what it meant yet.

He concentrated on taking another measured breath.

And then another.

And then another. 

Mycroft let go when he felt Sherlock relax into the breathing.

“Hello, Sherlock.” The relief in Mycroft’s voice was immense.

Sherlock started to speak, but his throat was shot after so long without use – a harsh rasps came out instead.

Mycroft immediately reached for a cup, water and a straw. He held it as his brother sipped.

Sherlock made a face as its gelatinous texture slipped across his tongue.

_Thickening agent. To avoid accidental asphyxiation._

He sipped some more, moved his head when he’s had enough.

His throat still felts raw, voice raspy, but better.

Knowing his baby brother and what the first questions would be, Mycroft held up a hand and answered before he can ask, “Three weeks, four days, 1:36am – I believe the exact time you were born, but I’ll have to confirm with Mummy on that. Speaking of Mummy, I’ll update her and Father later in the morning you’re truly back. Though we’ve been at your hospital bedside like this plenty of times before, I did finally convince them to go home a couple of days ago, still, she worries so. And _he_ is in the Middle East with the British Royal Army.”

Sherlock blinked. He expected multiple responses, rolled his eyes at his brother’s intentional snark regarding Mummy and his numerous hospital stays, but that last was not expected.

“You have more questions - I know, but your vitals have changed with your awakening and I expect any moment Nurse Ra…” Mycroft looked up as the bane of his existence, Nurse Elena Guskova – aka Nurse Ratched, walked in already ordering someone at the nurses’ station to page one of the doctors on call and to call Dr. Andersen, the family’s primary physician in London.

“Let them do their job, I’ll be right here, I’m not leaving you.”

Nurse Guskova coughed pointedly.

“I’ll be out there. I’m not leaving you.” Mycroft corrected as he gritted his teeth, under the nurse’s glare. Sherlock looked from one to the other and decided he liked her already. Mycroft could see his brother’s approval of the cantankerous nurse’s disregard for his authority. He should have been annoyed, but in that moment, he couldn't be.

“Welcome back brother mine.” Mycroft smiled for the first time in three weeks as he backed away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Kansas “Dust in the Wind”


	11. And The Feeling Coming From My Bones Says Find A Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every little thing reminds me...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are gold.

_Five years previous…_

After four full days of being awake and subjected to countless examinations, Sherlock was already fit to be tied. He alienated most of the staff on his floor, especially on the night shift, after he outed an affair. When a night shift nurse ran from his room in tears Nurse Elena Guskova stormed into his room, tossing keys in her hand, the one tell-tale sign that told him he crossed the line and threatened to have him sedated for the rest of the night if he mouthed off one more time. The tall stout red head, who took no prisoners when it came to the care of the patients and the staff on her shift alike, had made this threat to Sherlock, syringe at the ready, in front of Mycroft nonetheless, who had not so much bat an eye at her. It was enough and gave Sherlock a respectful, if amused, pause.

_You and Mary would have liked her John._

Now that he had awakened she quickly learned of his normal sleeping habits, or rather the lack thereof and how it was best for everyone all around to keep him busy. She was especially grateful last night when Lestrade brought in some cold cases at 2am to occupy his time. Still, the nurse seemed to have an almost sixth sense in tune to Sherlock’s needs. Tea and food magically appeared when he was ready for it. When a late night visit from Mycroft proved tiring, she appeared and shooed him out in a few minutes.

_No, you would have loved her John._

Mycroft wanted Sherlock out of the hospital as soon as possible, but having been basically inert for weeks had taken a toll. Dr. Andersen with Nurse Guskova’s approval, had decreed Sherlock was going nowhere until he had regained his motor skills to satisfaction, which could not be properly monitored if he was gone.

_This wouldn’t have been an issue before…. everything happened._

“You do not trust me to do what’s best for my own transport?” Sherlock challenged her one evening.

_"It is called your body, NOT transport, Sherlock Holmes!"_

The nurse’s scathing look said it all. Molly, who had been visiting at the time, outright snorted. Sherlock was not sure if her amusement was at the nurse’s expression or because Molly knew the disingenuousness of the question itself. Sherlock had become so accustomed to being released under John’s care. It almost felt strange to advocate for himself again. Though Sherlock would never openly admitted it, he conceded his limbs were not responding as quickly as expected. Moving under his own steam again proved to be surprisingly tiresome and he was secretly glad for the extra time, boring though it be.

_Wouldn't be so boring were you... dammit! No one's talking about him, must stop thinking about him._

He also quickly deduced Mycroft had issued a gag order of sorts; for he had not asked about John and no one had mentioned the man to him. The official story that went out to the public was that Sherlock was attacked while on a case. He will not have that mercy of no asking questions once he was back out there. It was just as well.

He was not ready to deal with the world and their inane questions. And their pity.

_You left without saying good-bye. Not even a note, John?_

He certainly was not ready to face himself yet - his mind palace was still in disarray from that emergency clean up, but he knew where everything was and could keep it locked down - for now.

_I at least told you good-bye, even if it was under false pretenses._

So he accepted his victories where he could get them. It was a major victory to Sherlock to able to convince Nurse Guskova and crew – not his doctor, Nurse Guskova, for there was no question who ran that floor from midnight to 8am –he was _not_ using the damned penile catheter. _Convince_ being used loosely as it involved a huff of exasperated breath on his part, as he sat up reached over for an empty water bottle and wet-naps, snatched the sheet off his body, lowered his pyjamas pants, then painfully, but determinedly removed said offending catheter from his person – flung the tubing over the side of the bed, partially filled the bottle, recapped it and placed it back on the table next to the waiting bedpan, cleaned his hands with wet naps and tossed the used napkins in the bedpan, before he finally righted his clothes to cover his assets and himself again. All of this as he glared at the nurse. It was the one and only time he knew he at least momentarily truly ruffled the otherwise steadfast nurse who to her credit -once she snapped her jaw shut over the initial surprise as it initially began that is- folded her arms, locked eyes with his and managed to observe the proceedings with a straight face.

“See? I can pass urine completely unassisted. Now may I please be rid of the bloody thing?”

He flopped back on the bed, pulled the sheets to his shoulders, turned on his side and closed his eyes in blatant dismissal.  When he did not hear her leave after a full minute, he looked over his shoulder to find she still stood in the same spot.

“BAMFTA and the Academy Awards clearly have not seen you in a full on strop to award the hacks they do for Outstanding Performance in a Drama.” Nurse Guskova deadpanned.

They shot daggers at each other for a moment before the mirth of his surprise at her snark came out in a snort that made them both giggle.

“I’ll have that cleaned up and a proper container made available, Mr. Holmes.”

“Thank you, Nurse Guskova.”

<>==========<>

While he appreciated his catheter victory, it still galled him to use a bed pan when solids were reintroduced to his system. When nature called after midnight, he was determined to go the bathroom on his own.

His first thought was to call out to John who naturally would have been right there, but then he remembered.

_I’m on my own, just like before. I did it then, I can do this now._

It took ten minutes to get there, his legs felt like rubber, but he made it to the door.

_Home stretch Holmes, open the door and you’ll have this aced._

He pushed at the door. It didn’t budge. That was when he remembered the housekeeping staff complained how the door will get stuck and they really have to put their muscle into it.  Muscles Sherlock did not quite have back in his legs yet to give him the necessary leverage to push at the door, and most of it was tired out to just gett to the door.  He knew he was not going to make it back to the bed.

_Have to…_

_…get…_

_…this bloody door…_

_Open!_

And in the world of _every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction_ , he was not prepared when the door and his legs finally gave. He slid off the door and tumbled into the bathroom. He hit the floor hard, banged his head on the edge of the sink in the process, pain shot all across his body as the door slammed into him.

He screamed.

“John!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from – The White Stripes "7 Nation Army"


	12. And I'm Thinking What A Mess We're In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality checks when transport fails.

_Five years previous…_

Minutes later Sherlock's eyes opened to the concerned face of one Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and a messy situation.

“Ah, there you are, mate.”

“Shite.”

“Well, I think you’ve accomplished a bit of that too, ya.”

Sherlock gave him a scathing look.

“Bringing back some memories here.” Lestrade’s gravelly voice was kind and slightly amused. Not pitying, nor condescending; Sherlock would not have been able to take that.

“Regrettably inspector, I do not have the tender mercy of being high off my tits as I have had in past iterations. I will have complete recollection of this.” Sherlock grumbled in acknowledgement of their shared past as Greg hoisted him by the armpits onto the toilet. No, this most certainly was not the first time Lestrade has had the honor of lifting him out of his own filth.

_Oh, but this WILL be the last._

“Can you stand long enough to perhaps shower?”

“I don’t think so.” Sherlock gritted his teeth to the inevitable. “Can you get Nurse Elena Guskova? No one else. I, I don’t want her to see me like this, but at least she has some sense, unlike any of those other sniveling…’”

“I’m already here Mr. Holmes and don’t disparage my nurses. At least not in my presence.” She stepped into view, “I was prepared to shoo the inspector away if by some miracle you were asleep. I’m the only one you lot seem to listen to when ordered to get out.”

“That’s because you scare the shite out of me.” Greg quipped, then winced as Sherlock pulled a face, “Sorry.”

“What’s your excuse?” She glanced at Sherlock as she and Greg stepped gingerly around each other. She gently starts felt around Sherlock’s head and found the beginning swell of what promised to be a nice goose egg. “Really, I should have known you would do something this stupid and been better prepared for it. You will just short of kill yourself trying to get out of this fine establishment. Oh, you’ve bonked yourself but good, lad.”

Sherlock winced from the contact, instinctually started to stand to get away from her.

“Move off that toilet Sherlock Holmes: you will wake up back on a catheter!”

Sherlock saw her expression and slunk back down. Greg barely, just barely, kept his face straight.

“I’m not scared of you, you know.” Sherlock huffed.

Greg’s jaw dropped as he laughed. “You do know you said that out loud, right?”

How a grown man, who sat in his own waste, could still look haughty was beyond Greg’s ken, yet Sherlock Holmes somehow managed to do exactly that, his eyes flashed green vindictiveness at the detective inspector as if to say _So?_

Elena ignored him and turned to Greg. “I’m going to get him the shower bench. If he moves, cuff him to the bloody sink.”

Sherlock blinked at the alacrity with which Greg brandished his handcuffs in challenge, but he did not move.

Elena returned with a new shower bench wrapped in plastic.  “Apparently your brother had this sent yesterday. Said to tell you it _meets the criteria_.”

“What does that mean?” Greg asked as he helped her to unwrap it.

“That the insufferable twot probably had it sterilized within an inch of its life.”  Elena binned the plastic, before she pointed at Sherlock, “Don’t dare open your mouth to tell me it’s an inanimate object, it has no life, you.”

Sherlock, about to do exactly that, shut his mouth with an audible click.

“You know what? You are in good hands, Sherlock.” Greg bobbed his head, “I left a couple of cold cases for you. It’s been a really long night. I’m going home.” Greg did not bother to hide his grin.

“Coward.” Sherlock pouted. “Afraid you’ll be asked to bathe me?”

“Yes. Yes, I most certainly am.” Greg agreed, his warm brown eyes went soft for a moment, before he turned to leave, “You’re gonna be all right, you know.”

“I know.”

“Goodnight Nurse Guskova.”

“Goodnight Detective Inspector.” She nodded as he walked out of the bathroom.

Sherlock flushed as he saw Lestrade check his clothes before he donned his trench coat and headed for the door.

“Goodnight, Greg. And thank you.”

The detective inspector’s gait stuttered for a half-step. Lestrade knew Sherlock knew his name, the whole calling him Graham, Giles and anything else beginning with g, was part of the façade he had for the public and to annoy John, who is, or rather was, equally aware of it, but played along for their own reasons. It was likely an unconscious testament of the pain and discomfiture he was in to use his proper name now.  

_He IS going to be okay._

“Goodnight Sherlock.”

“Mr. Holmes, stay put while I find you a walker until you’re good on your own.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I mean it, stay.” Hers was the matter of fact tone of one who has done this before and knew she will again, with just a touch of humor. Despite it all, he actually felt a little better.

By the time Elena returned Sherlock had removed his soiled clothing and cleaned up some of what was on the floor. A towel was in his lap for modesty.

“You really cannot help yourself can you?” She shook her head exasperated as she placed the shower bench in position and turned on the taps, then adjusted the temperature.

She placed the walker, just outside of the shower. “All right Mr. Holmes since you’re determined to be self-sufficient sooner than your body is ready, at least have the sense to use the proper tools. Tonight, you’re going to get yourself cleaned up. Once you’re back in bed I’ll get housekeeping in here.”

<>==========<>

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Nurse Guskova walked in as Sherlock stood by his bed as she started another shift a few days later. There were files opened in front of him as he was looked out of a window, but she doubted if he actually saw anything.

Sherlock shook his head, scribbled a note - _if pool boy is left-handed, with a scar on his thumb and has a Siamese cat – arrest him, otherwise it was the gardener_.

He closed the files, put them aside, then turned to her and smiled. It was a smile that did not reach his eyes as he studied her for a moment.

“Come now, madam, we both know even my most inconsequential of thought is worth more than a mere penny.” He drawled.

“Your modesty knows no bounds, sir.” She rolled her eyes.

“Why madam, I ensured to securely wrap my modesty last week.” This time the smile had reached, the eyes mischievously glittered as he climbed onto the bed and sat, he crossed his long legs at the ankles as he leaned back. He could see how she assessed his movements, a nod of approval as she continued the banter.

“And a good thing too! After that charming display of your _capabilities_ last week, why my delicate sensibilities could not possibly have restrained itself from any further exposure to your modesty, sir!” She imitated an American southern belle to wonderful affect, including a fanning of her face with her hand.

“Please! Your sensibilities are about as delicate as my modesty.” He couldn’t help himself.

“Prat!” She shot back, not in the least offended.

She saw the look flash across his face as his smile fled and was replaced by the one that did not reach his eyes again, it was quick, but she saw it. She knew immediately who must have also called him such.

Sherlock bit hard on the memories that flashed. He knew by her reaction, that she saw it as started to walk away.

“Nurse Guskova…” Sherlock began.

“Elena, please.” She turned back to him with a gentle smile.

“Nurse Elena…” He nodded slowly.

“No, just Elena is fine, Mr. Holmes.”

“If you’re just Elena, then I insist on just Sherlock.”

“Okay, Just Sherlock.” It was a feeble joke, followed by a feeble laugh, but he smiled and took some small comfort for the effort.

“Let me finish this round and I’ll come back.”

“Okay.”

Elena returned and waited, watched her patient try to decide whether to ask.  After a long moment she came to the bed and had Sherlock sit up while fluffed his pillow, effectively muffled the microphone she discovered two weeks ago. She grinned at Sherlock’s raised brow. She had him scoot over so she could hitch a hip on the bed.

“Your brother is insufferable, but he does love you. I was told he nearly collapsed in ER when you coded. Went quite a little mad he did, screamed your name until they threatened to sedate him if he didn’t pipe down. I suspect the question you’re trying not to ask is about your lover then? Your brother does not want him about.”

“My lover?” 

“Oh, not your lover, then? Dr. Watson? Your brother banned him from visiting.”

Elena cringed at the choked, not quite a laugh, not quite a cry, that came from Sherlock as the mention of his erstwhile flatmate.

_Perhaps, once upon a time, I had hoped so, but not now._

“What made you think he was my lover?”

“Your brother of course has an approved visitors list, given your celebrity. Your flatmate’s name was not on it. That means your brother does not want him near you. But it’s Watson, you’re in the news together; all and sundry knows he is your flatmate. It’s been my experience when secret couples need to visit a hospitalized loved one, they usually find a way to sneak in as Dr. Watson had.”

“You saw him? You saw John? Here?” Sherlock blinked. Mycroft had not said anything.

“Twice.” She nodded. “He was bad off. “

“When? Tell me everything.”

She told of the first visit, early in the morning before sunrise. She had a decent eye for detail as she described his appearance. Sherlock knew then John’s first visit was the night he was admitted.

_The night of the attack. I can say the words, the night my best friend attacked me._

Then she told of the broken soldier she saw sobbing at his bedside. Sobbing loud enough she heard him through the door on her rounds.

He absorbed her words asking questions, piecing things together, until she was finished.

_Soldier? He was in uniform. The night before he deployed? Mycroft’s doing, must be._

He stared at Elena confused when she handed him a tissue. His fingers touched his cheek and he is surprised to find a line of tears there. _Oh._

“Was he my lover? No. Was he the man who put me in here? Yes.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. I presumed…” Elena stammered clearly surprised.

“No, it’s...fine. John had permission at least those two specific times. If my brother truly wanted him away from me, he would have been shot on sight. I’d like to rest now, if you don’t mind.” He purposely shuffled on the pillows to uncover the microphone and closed his eyes.

“No, you’re going to brood, or do the blank face thing you do when you shut out the world, but no, you’re not going to rest.” She patted his hand, understanding the dismissal. “If you do manage to fall asleep before shift end, I will see you tomorrow night.”

“Goodnight Elena.” Sherlock sat up then, not bothering to pretend any more and steepled his fingers under his chin, as she left the room.

<>==========<>

He may have been in a coma, but some odd things filtered through. Without his control, the newer imprints were not where they should be. And Sherlock was painstakingly aware of the pointless thoughts and sentimentality that seemed to have taken over his normally well-structured mind since he’d awaken. Not being able to find physical balance was one thing. This was his body, getting stronger by the day. It is transport and he would master his transport again.

Sherlock prized his thoughts, the acuity of his mind above all else. That he could not seem to find mental balance was indeed a problem.

The time had come.

Sherlock opened a door to his mind palace.

_Let’s begin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Jamiroquai “Virtual Insanity” (Yes, it was with tongue firmly planted in cheek.)


	13. It’s All Ending, We Have To Stop Pretending Who We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock opens his Mind Palace and resets...

_Five years previous…_

  
The time had come.

Sherlock opened a door to his mind palace.

_Let’s begin._

<>==========<>

 _[That was…amazing!]_  
_[You think so?]_  
_[Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary.]_  
_[That’s not what people normally say.]_  
_[What do people normally say?]_  
_["Piss off"]_

_That is where it began, isn’t it?_

A literal partner in crime, the solving of it. It was so good. The adventures. The inappropriate smirks and laughter at crime scenes.

_[I was so alone, and I owe you so much.]_

Sherlock had heard John utter those broken words at his presumed grave. John had no way of knowing then how much that was reciprocated. Had he been that desperate for attention, for validation that he latched on the first person to show it? He knew that was not true, otherwise he would have pounced on Molly long ago.

_That would have never worked._

_[I need an assistant.]_

He had said those words to Greg Lestrade the evening he first showed John Watson 221B. He didn’t know it yet, but his assistant was already sitting there in what was so obviously going to be _John’s chair_ even then on that first day. John’s blue gaze hopping from Lestrade to Sherlock and back again with an intensity most people reserved for Wimbledon.

 _[Want to see some more?]_  
_[Oh God, yes.]_

As much as Sherlock threw the idiot word around him, John really was an intelligent man. Not at the levels of himself and Mycroft, obviously, but given time the good doctor usually got there on his own. And because he could get there, and often inspire the detective to paths of thought he may have otherwise missed, John had proven himself to be Sherlock’s greatest strength – and also, unfortunately, as Moriarty quickly surmised – his greatest weakness.

_[That, er ... thing that you, er, that you did – that, um ... you offered to do. That was, um ... good.]_

_How did that all happen in little under two years?_

Someone not quite ordinary who appreciated his genius, equally enjoyed the cases, and the danger. Someone who cared about him. Someone other than Lestrade and his brother who _stayed_. Sherlock had let someone care and started caring in return.

_Oh, do not lie to yourself now, William Sherlock Scott Holmes! You may never have been able to say them directly to him, but you WILL say them to yourself._

Sherlock opened another door in his palace.

_[…the two people who love you most in all this world.]_

Yes, Sherlock loved him. Spent two years infiltrating and dismantling Moriarty’s criminal web to keep John safe. He was captured and tortured. He very likely would have been killed in Serbia had Mycroft not done his own infiltration to save him.

Sherlock threw open another door.

_[I’m burning up. I’m at the bottom of a pit, I’m still falling, and I’m never climbing out.]_

And what did it get him?  John got engaged to Mary anyway and Sherlock stood there, the best man, the best friend and made them vows, because that’s what John had chosen to be happy. And all Sherlock ever wanted since he met John Hamish Watson was for him to be happy more than anything, even at the cost of his own happiness.

_[Sentiment is a defect found in the losing side.]_

_Ah Holmes, not so much fun being on the losing side, is it?_

Sherlock did not notice when Nurse Guskova walked into his room. She saw his face and knew he was in his mind palace as Mycroft had explained the first time she encountered him in it. She saw the tears in the crystalline blue eyes that she realized even Sherlock did not know had fallen. She hoped whatever it was going through the man’s head it brought him peace or at least closure as she backed out of the room.

Just as he had not felt his tears, he did not see his eyes narrow or noted how his hands flew through the air as pulled memories apart as he gleaned, stored and discarded. He opened rooms and drawers and files and took apart every thought every memory of his time with Doctor John Hamish Watson. What parts were his burden, what parts were John’s. He examined them all with clinical detachment until he is down to one. The last one.

Sherlock paused in front the door to the room, his sitting room at Baker Street, took a breath and opened it.

He remembered everything from that night, but especially the very last words he heard from John.

_[You know what, Sherlock Holmes? You know what? Fuck. You.]_

His mind replayed those last few painful minutes on loop several times, and then he simply stopped.

_No more._

Sherlock made peace with John not coming back then. That he had lost him forever.

His shoulders squared, back straightened and hands slowly fell into his lap, as a familiar resolve slipped into place.

_I am alone again._

_[Alone is what protects me.]_

When he had spoken to Elena it was around 2am, when Sherlock let the world in again it was late morning. Mycroft had stood at the foot of his bed and calmly watched him.

An eyebrow raised as he took in Sherlock’s expression and slowly nodded in understanding.

Mycroft said the words aloud as Sherlock himself thought them.

“ _Goodbye John_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from No Doubt “Don’t Speak”
> 
> This story was supposed to end here with the resolution of the friendship and maybe one more chapter as epilogue. As you can see that did not happen. I blame the rest of these on Sherlock, but especially John, who had a LOT more to say to my muse and would not shut up - so enjoy.


	14. Through These Fields Of Destruction Baptisms Of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now the sun's gone to hell and  
> The moon's riding high  
> Let me bid you farewell  
> Every man has to die  
> ~ Dire Straits “Brothers In Arms”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are gold!

_Five years previous…_

As was her habit when perturbed, Nurse Elena tossed her keys back and forth in her hands. Disappointed, but was not at all surprised to find her favorite patient was gone when she returned to Sherlock’s room.

_Figures!_

Having had spent these past few weeks around the elder of the Holmes boys and the past two weeks with the younger, she suspected that pompous ass of an older brother had his hand in it. She would have held on to Sherlock at least two more days in spite of his complaints, just to be a pisser to Mycroft, but Sherlock was mobile enough to be released and she now knew the younger Holmes well enough to know nothing would have kept him here if he himself did not want to be. Nor would he have left until he was good and ready to go. Something happened when he went into his mind palace and whatever he found there was enough to release him in more ways than one.

When she walked into the room as her shift began, Mycroft was talking to someone new who sat in one of the visitor’s chairs by Sherlock’s empty bed. She had presumed Sherlock was in the bathroom as she entered further into the room to see this new addition. His back was to her, but she could see he was in an elegant dark grey suit with a black shirt. Her hand had itched to touch the point the mass of soft dark curls came to at the base of his skull. As she had angled her view to see more of this new person, it was the fingers steepled under the chin that clued her in, she recognized the new man was Sherlock, just as he had stood to greet her. 

_Oh! What a difference a bespoke suit compared to pyjamas and a dressing gown make!_

She may be an older woman, but she was not a blind one, thank you.  At considerably less than 100% Sherlock Holmes was mesmerizing. Seeing him near his 100% self was outright captivating. She blushed at the detective's raised brow and soft grin, having caught the nurse's overt admiration of him when alarms on the floor sounded and she instinctively took off toward them.

They had not had a chance to chat per what had become their routine at the start of her shift when Mr. Deans two rooms over started coding. It took a while to get the man stabilized again and in the chaos, Sherlock and Mycroft had slipped away. She understood then his staying to midnight was just to see her one more time, and for her to see the real him, before he left.

_Ah well._

She would be on holiday in just a few short hours once her shift was done. A month of relative peace and quiet in Rostov-on-Don to visit her ailing mother. She looked around the room at all the flowers and gifts left behind. She could tell some items were taken with them, the bulk left to be cleaned-up by housekeeping.

 _So typical of posh boys_.

She’d remove any identifying cards and pass along the fresher ones to other patients on the floor, who can have them.

She missed a toss of her keys, and cursed in her native Russian as they hit the floor. Using the bed to balance as she attempted to scoop them up from the floor, only to accidentally slide them further under the nightstand. It became a string of curses as she got all the way down on the floor to retrieve them.

_What is that?_

Some folded paper on the floor almost behind the small nightstand caught her attention.  She reached underneath and picked it up, along with her keys.

The writing was compact, but precise. She was about to run her finger under the edge to open it when alarms went off again.

_Mr. Deans!_

She cursed as she shoved the paper in her pocket and ran.

<>==========<>

_Four years previous…_

Captain Watson silently signaled their positions around the partial rubble of what was once someone’s home. He expanded his sense of the area around his unit. Took in a mental placement of each soldier’s location and condition from what he remembered of the maps, overlaid it with what was before him. Major Ward, Second Lieutenant Torley and Second Lieutenant Kieran Henderson were fine.  Lieutenant Trenton Wallace, was winged in the meaty part of his right shoulder, but he was a leftie, so he was good. Tiny fragments of shrapnel were likely still lodged in Second Lieutenant Sam Lewis’ thigh, but moved well enough for the moment. The doctor had not seen the dark circle expand, a definite indicator she was still bleeding through the bandages, but there was nothing he could do until back at base. The cut above his own right eye was minor, but the sweat from this infernal heat had made it sting like the paper cut from hell and he surreptitiously wiped it away as he repositioned on order.

His punishment for so gloriously kicking everyone’s ass at the range two days before was to be assigned to take out another cabal in…

_Which fucking *Stan are we in now? It didn’t really matter, did it?_

John was more than a little furious Torley was assigned to him, the kid proved himself good to have around on their last mission into, but he had little more than a week before his tour was up. This current mission, that was promised to be a cakewalk, already went a bit not good as their target was not anywhere their intel had claimed. They were sneaking their way out, trying to reach the outskirts for a pick up.  It was cruel on so many levels for Torley to have been there, and John was determined he was bringing the second lieutenant back to base.  Still, as much as a part of John hated these types of unsanctioned missions, the ones that will never appear on any record as a Royal Army Medical Corps, he could not deny the rush that thrummed through him. He glanced around as the crunch of pebbles falling sounded off to the side.

 _Wha…_?

He spun around just in time see a flash of material that wasn’t uniform and started shooting through the wall on instinct just as all manner of insanity erupted around them.

“AMBUSH!” someone yelled unnecessarily.

_You think?_

John took off for the wall he just shot through, skidded to a stop to peek around, confirmed his kill and a clear path before he started to go around it.

The heat of the near miss made him dive for cover.

_Shite!_

“Sniper!” He screamed out.

He heard movement behind him, immediately flipped over, gun ready to shoot even as he heard the sickening sound as a bullet found its target and the thud as a body dropped..

Major Ward.

_Shite!_

He knew he could not help his major; there was no coming back from a head shot that like that.

Captain Watson knew this.

Doctor Watson knew this.

John Watson tried to crawl to his brother-in-arms anyway.

_Shite! Shite!_

And was almost assaulted as bullets and wall fragments flew over, knocked chunks out of the wall and riddled Ward’s body made it bounce. John closed his eyes from the sight to keep from being sick as he slunk backwards to the wall again.

_That was a fucking waste of bullets just to prove a point you arse!_

Watson was pinned.

_Shite! Shite! Shite! Where was the fucker?_

The sniper had to be close to cause that much damage.

He spotted bullet holes in the wall above his head that let daylight pierce through. He was able to see out, but would the sniper be able to see in? He spotted a piece of board near his foot and used it to cover the hole. No response.  On a hunch he took off his helmet, suspended it on the board and raised it slowly, eased it forward just enough to be seen over the jagged ledge as he peeked through the hole and…

_Fuck!_

The helmet bounced off to the side behind him, as a bullet pierced it, the impact caused him to drop the board.  John knew it was pure luck his eyes were aligned to catch the minute muzzle flash in the distance that pinpointed the sniper’s location from the roof across the street.  _Flash suppressant_ he thought automatically as he grabbed his helmet and put it on.

_Okay, I know the arsrhole’s location – now what?_

He heard gun fire traded not too far away.

And then the most eerie silence.

“Captain! Major!” Someone, he thought it was Torley, called out, boots ran towards him.

_Only two sets? That was not good at all._

“Sniper dammit, cover!” John yelled, then listened as the boots came to a halt.

A moment later Torley’s face appeared around a corner, shock registered at the sight of Ward’s body followed by some very creative swearing, as he signaled Wallace was behind him. 

“Status!” John ordered snapping the second lieutenant back to their present danger.

“Henderson and Lewis are down, Sir. We took out six of theirs that I can see, but…” Wallace reported automatically, then paused. John took a steadyied breath; he knew he was not going to like what was coming next.

“Wallace!” He snarled when the man took too long to respond.

“Sir, they shot up the radio taking out Lewis. I tried it. It’s just the three of us with no way to call for help.” Torley finished. It hit John then, he was the most senior officer; he was now in charge of their lives.

_Torley._

_Oh. Fuck.  We’ve got to get out of here!_

Both he and Wallace looked up in panic as voices screamed and an all too familiar whine from a distance was heard closing in.

“Sirs?” Torley looked at the barely suppressed panic on both of his superiors’ faces.

“Oh. My. God. Ours or theirs?” Wallace’s eyes went wide.

“Doesn’t fucking matter! HAUL ARSE!” John grabbed Ward’s body and slung him over his shoulder fireman style, then took off heedless of the sniper who had very likely done exactly what they had done – ran as if life depended on it - because it did. 

The whirr of the Apache helicopter’s blades, was only slightly less frightening than the whine of the turbine pumping out the M230 rounds, was merciless as it took out everything in sight. Torley remembered seeing a Jeep across a courtyard they passed. They had to take the risk of being out in the open to get to it.  Wallace and Torley skidded to stops surrounding the doorway.  The vehicle was straight ahead of them in sight. It was foolhardy to say the least, but the rounds from the Apache were getting closer by the second. There was NO time to properly recon, John barely glanced around as he went for it, Wallace and Torley on his heels. He dropped Ward in the back, thanking every deity in existence the keys were in the ignition, gunning it with Torley and Wallace barely in their seats.

Captain Watson remembered three things clearly about that moment - the sounds heard over tires that spatup sand as they took off:

The shot that pinged off the windshield frame much too close for comfort.

The return shot of Wallace as he took out the enemy shooter.

The soft thud of Second Lieutenant Marcus Torley as he fell on top of Major Ward; his face in the rear view mirror one moment.

And then he wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Dire Straits “Brothers In Arms”


	15. The Whole World Hinges, On Your Swings, Your Secret Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never ask "Oh, what now?" The deities consider that a challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback, I’m glad you're liking it! Let's see how you like what's coming now.

_Four years previous…_

John had barely slowed as the gate opened at the base. He drove straight to the command tent, slammed on the brakes with inches to spare. Those who had not already dove out of the way of his manic driving now all but ran at his murderous countenance, as he stalked in on the unprepared Field Marshal, Lieutenant Generals, Majors and others as they surrounded a table. Wallace entered behind him wisely choosing to stay near the door.

“Who ordered the Apache strike?”

Field Marshal Thorpe turned - whatever he was about to say died on his lips as he took in the bloody states of Watson and Wallace. Still his eyes narrowed sharply at the captain before John belatedly added “Sirs!”

“By God what happened to you, Watson?” Major Donnery turned around stunned.

“Who ordered the strike on 16-2, sirs?” John, not caring, repeated a little louder, a little tenser.

“Captain, status!” Lieutenant General Corney barked, John turned automatically to the command.

“Our intel was bad; it had to be, sirs. Casper was literally a ghost; it was like the target never existed. Where we were sent? We all but waltzed into a fucking ambush. It was a shitstorm, sir. Our radio was shot out. Ward, Lewis and Torley are dead. Their bodies are in the Jeep.” John swung his head back to glare at the Field Marshal. “And Torley? He had six days and a wake up! Six fucking days! I begged you, fucking  _begged you_ not to let him go, sir!”

Thorpe at least had the grace to look upset for one moment as he nodded once then accepted the information before he pulled his soldier’s mask back into place.

_Not good enough!_

“WHO! THE! FUCK! ORDERED! THE! STRIKE! ON! SIXTEEN-TWO?!?!”

“CAPTAIN WATSON! STAND DOWN NOW!!”

Watson and Thorpe glared at each other. John smirked and rolled his shoulders before it slowly, slowly, SLOWLY sank into him that what he had gave off had to have been so very bad. Though his own hands were at his sides, he idly noted several others in the room eased towards their firearms. He spotted the eyes of Donnery as they pleaded - he can all but heard the man in his head. 

_Bring it down, Watson. If you're going to get shot, don't let it be over a fucker like Thorpe!_

John took in a deep breath through his nose and eased it through his teeth. He took another and then another, as he visibly struggled to take it down several notches, before he finally stood  at ease in front of them, though the tension in his body was anything but. It was only about thirty seconds, oh but it was a tense thirty seconds before most hands were somewhat relaxed again. 

“Sixteen-Two? That area was ordered to be cleared out.” Colonel Bradford turned to the person next to him. John blinked, in his rage he had barely registered the two black clad figures that stood with Bradford. Though Bradford faced him, they still faced the table. The one closest to Bradford turned, his eyes went momentarily wide as the saw John, the "Oh shit" on his face as clear as if he had spoken the words aloud. 

 _Oh, what now?_  

“We radioed we were going in. We had orders to take that area out and to leave nothing standing.”

An all too familiar voice entered the room behind John. A voice that neither Captain, Doctor nor even Mister John H. Watson had thought to be heard again. Well at least not this soon, he inwardly groaned.

_Oh God, you MUST be kidding me!_

“Captain Watson. This is Agent Rosamund Petru…” Yates never finished the introduction as John rounded on the all black wearing, assault rifle slung over the shoulder, holstered pistol, Kevlar clad figure.

“Really dear, I understand why you want me dead, but don’t you think sending an Apache was a _tad_ bit of an overkill?” John snarled sweetly.

Donnery’s ruddy eyebrows all but disappeared into his hairline, at “Really dear” and then hovered mid-air above his head as comprehension dawned at John’s words.

“Captain Watson, what the hell? What could you possibly have done that Agent Petrushenka would want you dead?” The brigadier glanced from one warrior to the other.

“Marry her.” John half shrugged non-nonchalantly.

“Marry me.” said the agent simultaneously.

They  both grimaced at the stunned silence that followed.  

John bared his teeth, because no one would call it a smile. There was nothing pleasant about it. In fact, Wallace who stood behind the agent in full view of it, unconsciously took a step back into the door.

Major Rosamund Petrushenka, the _R_ of the infamous A.G.R.A. thumb drive, quickly assessed the furious man in front of her. The man she has not lain eyes on since she ordered him out of their house over a year ago. He was dinged up and bloody, but all that blood was not his or he’d hardly be there standing as he glared, let alone screamed, at his superiors, so he was otherwise well. 

“Hello John.”

“Hello Mary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from R.E.M. “Bang and Blame”


	16. Because Somebody Else Had Nothing Better To Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter - though a part of the main story, can stand independently on its own so I decided to release it today on Independence Day here in America. Enjoy!

_Four years previous…_

"It’s was a four at best Lestrade and I’m being exceeding generous at that! You figured out a right-handed person could not have caused that type of damage. Even Donovan was astute enough to know such wounds could not made at that angle. Did I just give her a compliment?” Sherlock huffed annoyed, barely, just barely caught the door before it swung into Lestrade.

A part of him was still accustomed to John being right behind him, catching doors in his wake. He had to remember the little things again, like not letting doors slam into Lestrade’s face when he wasn’t actually perturbed at the man. If he’s always rude to him, it took away from the times when he wanted to do it purposely, such as any time Donovan makes the mistake of being directly behind him he went through doors.

It had been a rainy April evening, but now as it neared midnight, the night skies were crystal clear. The streets and pavement glittered in the aftermath, a pale cousin to the stars above in the mostly silent streets. The men had left NSY, made their way to the DI’s car to give Sherlock a lift to 221B, Lestrade’s payment for having dragged the man out of bed for a case clearly not worth his time. Luckily for Greg, Sherlock did not see the all-knowing smirk as the consulting detective continued his complaints.

Both men stopped short as they heard the unmistakable sound of someone who sobbed.  

They followed the sound to a figure huddled on the wet ground next to a car. The beating was evident. Sherlock took a sharp intake of breath at the sight, saw a vision of his battered self, huddled there on the ground as he had been at Baker Street. Having seen Sherlock’s reaction, Lestrade immediately moved in front of Sherlock and crouched down.

“Hey there.” Greg spoke softly, started to reach out.

“Greg don’t.” Sherlock tapped Greg’s shoulder indicated he wanted to switch places. Greg’s face asked if he were sure and he nodded taking off his coat. Greg stood taking the Belstaff as Sherlock crouched down and took in the person.

He tried to pull himself up, but even in the dark between cars the beating was evident. He wore clothes that were of a good quality, _were_ having been the opportune word, soaked as they were from the puddle he had slipped in. Blood stained a pant leg and shirt where he had wiped his hands at some point. The torn shirt exposed his chest slightly.

_Ah._

“What is your name?” Sherlock asked gently, but pointedly. “Would you like some help?”

“Go away.” Came the hoarse response, with a quick glance.

“In your condition you came to the police and not the hospital which you need more.” Sherlock continued, as if he hadn't spoke, “Depending on who gets you at intake, a hospital automatically assumes the binary they think they see. With the police you can keep the identity you present - for a while anyway.”

“What do you care?”

“You are hurt badly and are in need of help, but we cannot force it upon you while you are conscious. If you should pass out before I can convince you otherwise I would prefer to address you, and ensure others address you, as you wish and not how society says you should.”

That earned him and Lestrade more than a fleeted glance. Sherlock saw the moment recognition occurred and took a little breath as he hoped celebrity, such as it is, was not a deal breaker.

“The name on my certificate of birth is R-Roberta.”

“But that is not how you identify, is it?”

“I identify as… I am Robert.” He sat up a little straighter, his face rose more into the light. Sherlock had estimated him to be in his early 30s at first look, he now lowered it to late-20s. The better light also gave Sherlock a better view of the injuries and he closed his eyes for a moment, as he knew a truth.

_Tell him Sherlock, he needs this from someone who knows._

“I didn’t fight mine back either.” He said sadly, as he acknowledged the lack of defensive wounds on Robert’s hands. “Hurts so much more on the inside than it does on the outside when it’s someone you love so much, doesn’t it?”

Robert looked hard at Sherlock then, saw everything Sherlock wanted him see as Sherlock nodded to the unasked question.

_Yes, Robert, I’ve had the bloody shite beat out of me by a loved one, too._

Robert nodded more to himself, in response as fresh tears fell.

Sherlock heard Lestrade softly swear behind him, whether it was for Robert’s admission or his own he did not know.

“And yet I sit here a bloody mess, crying like the female I am.” Robert rubbed his face in anger then winced from the action.

“Oh, do not give in to the stereotypes! I promise you I was a bloody sniveling mess when I was attacked.” Sherlock begrudgingly admitted, “I am relatively certain Greg had to bin the shirt I bled and slobbered all over.” 

“Actually, I’m wearing it now, I think.” Greg confessed.

“What?!” Sherlock's head snapped up to look at the shirt repulsed, as though the shirt still harbored his mucus and blood.

“Sorry, policeman’s salary. Can’t afford to randomly toss shirts like you posh boys.” He shrugged good-naturedly. This had brought a reluctant, if brief sniff of a laugh as Robert looked up at the silver-haired man.

“You’re Detective Inspector Lestrade. I’ve seen you on the telly.”

“Ya. And this is Sherlock Holmes.” Greg nodded as he placed Sherlock’s coat on the hood of the car, then crouched beside Sherlock, heedless how the hem of his own trench dragged the still wet ground. “Robert, can you tell us what happened?”

“Somebody else had nothing better to do? Just the latest let down in a string of being let downs?” His voice was low, but harsh in the soft bitter laughter, “I am bloody awful as a man, and bloody worse as a woman. I told him, you have four daughters let me be the son you didn’t have. He cursed me out, called me a _bloody bulldagger_. I had to look that one up if you can you believe, it. He said all I needed was _to get some cock up in me_ , his words, and I wouldn’t go around looking and behaving as though I was born already in possession of one.”

“Your father did this?” Lestrade asked as he bit the inside of his cheek to steady his voice and temper.

“No, I don’t think so.” Sherlock said automatically. Lestrade shot him a look.

“No, my sister, Renee, started it.” Robert’s laugh was bitter.

“I don’t follow.” Greg frowned.

“That should be put on a t-shirt.” Sherlock whispered, not quite under his breath.

_Oh do SHUT UP Holmes!_

Greg side-eyed Sherlock, who waved him off. “Why would your sister do this?”

“Because what I guess is her now ex-boyfriend, the stupid fucker, told her he saw me on a date last week and that I was getting a prettier woman than he was. He was being a right twat, but I knew he was making jest. When I laughed at it and joked if he were jealous, she flew off the handle and it turned into an ugly row. I pushed and she decked me. Papa ordered me out.” 

“You said your sister started it. How did it finish?” Sherlock watched Robert wince as he shifted on the ground, his pain took precedent for the moment.

_Possible sprain._

“That would be my eldest sister Regina, her husband Steve and four other members of her church.”

“They did not.” Sherlock looked to him and froze, he had already deduced what happened, by the stricken look on Robert’s face.

“Oh, save us from the sins of those done in the name of God!” Sherlock spat.

“Oh, save us.” Robert agreed.

“I still don’t follow.” Greg frowned.

“And there’s the back of the shirt.” Sherlock spoke then immediately winced in regret. The words from now and the memory of John and Magnussen twisted in his brain and fell unbidden from his lips. Lestrade raised a concerned brow. He gave Lestrade the slightest shake of his head for the detective inspector to ignore him.

_Get it together Holmes! Robert is the priority here, not you and your damned demons._

Sherlock took a breath and started again.

“Can you tell us exactly what happened Robert? I know it’s painful to relive so soon after. I know it’s hard, it’s family. It’s the people who are supposed to love you. No one can help you heal like those that love you, but by God no one can hurt you worse than those that love you.” He tried not to, but Sherlock felt the tears that started to well. “Still, it is totally up to you. It is your body. It is your life. You have complete autonomy here. If you but say so, the detective inspector and I will begrudgingly respect your wishes and leave you be to make do as you can. But I really hope you will tell us.”

“Did you tell anyone right after it happened?” Robert looked up and saw as Sherlock angrily wiped away the tears that fell. 

“I didn’t have to. Detective Inspector Lestrade happened upon it in progress and pulled my attacker from me.” Sherlock looked to Lestrade who had placed a gentle hand on Sherlock’s arm and squeezed.  It wasn’t accurate on all that had happened, but it wasn’t a lie. “We were not there to save you from the worst of this, but with your permission we can be the first step to start your healing from it.

“Have you healed?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together tight before he sighed and answered.

“I won’t lie to you; no, I am not healed, not in the way I know you mean. Some days are better. Some – rougher - than others to handle.” Sherlock admitted, his luminous eyes glittered with more tears, but those he refused to let fall. “However, I do promise, the wounds, the scars, the fear, they get a little easier to bear, to live with each passing day. For me the first day towards that goal of healing was talking with Lestrade.”

Sherlock placed a hand over Lestrade’s for a moment, as he looked to the older man with a memory filled eyes.

_I’m okay. I am._

Lestrade nodded once at Sherlock, a small smile on his face before he let go. Robert looked from one man to the other, heard the unspoken thanks given and received between them for a long while before he simply spoke.

“I go to my eldest sister for solace after arguing with Renee who is second eldest. I forgot today - uh yesterday? -was their turn for Thursday bible study. When I used my key and walked into the living room on them I received a genial enough welcome. 'Gina saw my face, asked me to sit, that they were almost done. I was going to excuse myself go to the kitchen when I heard one of them stage whisper to another ‘We need to pray hard for that’ and I knew, just knew, they meant me. _That_ should have been my warning, but I wasn’t thinking.”

Robert’s voice was slowed, bitter, plodded as if he forced the story out word by pain filled word before he lost the nerve to tell it.

“I change my mind and decided to have a seat, right between them. I winked at one of them and he shot out of the chair so fast, you’d of thought I said I had a plague. They decided to have an impromptu intervention, each taking an arm, holding me down to pray. I...  I’m so stunned by what is happening, I can’t react as Regina puts her hand on my head…. And she’s y-yelling at me to let the devil making me gay loose.  They tried to _pray the gay_ away first. Then one of the brother’s decided beating it out of me might work, but Regina had to be the one to do it. And she did it! She… she HIT me. All the time saying that I… that I was evil. That what I was, was a mistake. My own sister! I couldn’t fight her, I just took her slaps as she prayed. And I, I g-guess because I w-wasn’t saying anything her slaps became punches and still I took it, I took it! Then she wasn’t praying anymore; she was just beating on me! I was actually starting to wonder if she were right. That I deserved this; else why God would let my sister do this to me if it wasn’t needed. Then it got ugly.” A bitter harsh ugly laugh came out, “One of the brothers holding me decided I need to see my own body. To see my breasts. To see me as God created me. The female the Almighty made. When he grabbed my collar that’s when I started fighting back. He ripped the shirt grabbing my breast. It hurt! How could she let them do this to me? How could she do it? I was starting to be scared what my father had suggested was going to happen and she would let it. Even if she could not accept me as her brother –my God, I’m her sister, I’m her SISTER!”

Robert’s voice broke off in a wretched wail, his face twisted in pain, gasped as he rocked back and forth. He had been sitting one arm around his waist, while the other held the torn shirt close to his body. As he cried his hands had fell away, the torn part of the shirt fell open partially exposed the assaulted breast. Sherlock could just make out the mark of fingers in the tender bruised flesh. He glanced at Lestrade who flexed his hands, his anger rose as Robert continued.

“I don’t know how I got free, but one of the brothers got a lamp smashed against his head for his troubles and went down. I ran out when they let me go seeing his blood. It was fine when it was my blood, oh but once it was theirs that spills…” 

His face twisted in a different kind of pain, hissed as he grabbed his leg tried to flex it gingerly.  “I think my leg is going numb, or I may have broken something, OW!” He looked to Sherlock, who was closer.

If Greg noticed Sherlock’s minute eye flick over his shoulder, where he expected John Watson to automatically take over in doctor mode, he gratefully gave no indication of such as Sherlock got an arm around Robert and helped him up. He could not put much weight on his left foot and still refused to go to the hospital, chose to lean against a car door.

“Do you mind if I examine your legs?” Sherlock asked as he pointed to Robert’s ankle “I’m not a doctor, but I have a pretty good idea of what a sprain feels like.”

Robert nodded. Sherlock crouched down again cautiously felt along the leg, ankle and foot as he gauged Robert's reaction. He felt Robert’s right for the comparison before he focused on specific areas on the left again.

“Shite!” Robert yelped.

“Sorry. Pretty solid on the ankle sprain, maybe a fracture of a metatarsal.” Sherlock informed them both. “Robert, you’re going to have to go to the hospital and have this properly checked.”

“They’re going to call the police and ask questions, no.” He shook his head vehemently, “She’s my sister! I can’t – I don’t want to press charges.”

“Well the bad news is, I’m a policeman. For one sister it’s a domestic, which can be tossed to family being family, but for the other no. I’ve seen you, even if you don’t want me to report it, I am legally bound to do so regardless.” Lestrade rubbed the back of his head. “The good news is, I’m a policeman. I can circumvent most of the questions, as you’ve already told us everything.”

Robert arms went around his body again, his head firmly shook in the negative. Lestrade looked to Sherlock helplessly.

“Robert, look at me.” Sherlock waited. When he hadn't responded Sherlock slowly reached out, made his intentions clear and grasped the young man’s shoulders gently.  As soon as he touched, Robert fell into his shoulder with wracked sobs. Sherlock’s arm went around him, held tight until the tears subsided and he pulled away on his own.

“Now can you look at me?” Sherlock waited until Robert nodded and met his eyes at last.

“You did not deserve this. No one should ever be made to feel this way. Made to feel less than for being who they are. You are not evil. You certainly did not deserve to be beat for it. You didn’t deserve this. You yourself came here to a police station, because you know what they did to you was wrong. You are not a mistake. You didn’t deserve this, even if you had started it, which you had not. You did not deserve this, but they deserve punishment for it. Do you hear me? Do you understand me? You. Did. Not. Deserve. This.” Sherlock's crystalline eyes loomed large with all he felt. 

Robert, trapped in Sherlock's intense gaze, took a deep shuddered breath through his mouth, lets it out through his nose, and then took another.

“I did not deserve this.” Robert said at last. It was weak, but it was honest. Sherlock gave a small nod accepted it.

"For the record, Robert, you're a male who likes females, that makes you hetero - not gay." Greg chimed in.

"Really Lestrade!" Sherlock put on his coat.

"I'm just saying his sister's got it wrong..." 

"Giles, do shut up."

"I thought your first name was Gregory?" Robert glanced between the two confused.

"It is Gregory." Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It is?!" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow in dramatic surprise.

"Why did he call you Giles, then?"

"Because the mad genius here is simply too STUPID to bother to remember it!"  Lestrade groused. 

Sherlock huffed as he popped up his coat collar and stepped away. Once behind Greg's back, solely in Robert's line of view, Sherlock shrugged as if to say _who knew?_

Robert laughed his first honest laugh, until the pain made him wince. 

“Can, can you take me to the hospital now, Mr. Holmes? Detective Inspector?” 

“Yes, Robert we can.” Greg nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Goldilocks16 “You Are Not Alone” https://youtu.be/cg0AnlyLZe0 
> 
> I still do not have a beta, but due to the uniqueness of this chapter I asked a friend to read it. When he read "You are not a mistake" in my story it reminded him of Goldilocks16's song. I had never heard it before, but fit so well I had to use it.


	17. One Who Truly Cares For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting by, with a little help from a friends.

_Four years previous…_

“This IS interesting, thank you Molly.” Sherlock adjusted the knobs on the microscope, as he pushed the slide slightly, changed the viewing angle of the specimen. He smiled, already lost in the potential puzzle as she handed him a mug of coffee. “You say they both had this residue on them?”

“Yes. It was three months ago since the last one, the drug dealer, but it was so odd I remembered it. And now this reverend has it.” Molly beamed in pleasure as she lined up more slides for him to view, plus spectrometer results for each, before she went back to a desk to work.

Sherlock pretended not to notice that she was watched him, no observed him. Still he noticed as his eyes rapidly switched between the slides, the data she had handed him and his own notes as he wrote. He took a sip of coffee a few minutes later and grimaced, looked at the mug for all the world as if it had personally offended him. Without a word, Molly walked over to him, removed the offending mug from his grasp, replaced it with a fresh one, poured out the contents, washed the mug in the sink and finally went back to her desk and whatever it was she worked on. He sipped the coffee, it was piping hot, he looked to her. 

“The one I took was from 9:45 this morning, it’s now 12:17.” She supplied making notes in her own work, before she looked up at him, “When did you last eat, Sherlock?”

“I am not hungry.” He averted his eyes.

“That is NOT what I asked.” She narrowed hers at him.

“Do not make me repeat myself.” He growled, tried to ignore her, when his stomach rumbled.

_Traitor!_

With John gone, he had slowly fallen back into his old eating habits. Mrs. Hudson would toss nearly as much food as she brought to him. On occasion she harangued, refusing to leave his flat until she witnessed him consume at least a small plate. Likewise, Molly had taken it upon herself to check on his meal consumption whenever he came by St. Bartholomew’s. He suspected she was also in cahoots with Mrs. Hudson, for if he had not been by the hospital in a while she found some reason to swing by the flat, always with food in tow. He was grateful to them both, but also annoyed.

_I am perfectly capable of maintaining my own transport!_

His own transport rumbled again loudly in disagreement.

“Sherlock!” Her dismay evident as she heard for it herself.

“Molly, I am not…” He gritted his teeth realizing he was about to repeat himself.

He saw her face, those doe eyes that beseeched. He sighed. He knew he would not win with his own transport determined to betray him. He was finished with the slides and everything else anyway.

_Fine!_

He saw it in her eyes, but Molly at least had the grace to not outright grin at his petulance as they packed everything away before going for their coats.

<>==========<>

_How do you do this?_

_You know me so well. You have seen me at my absolute worst._

_How is it that you love me so unselfishly, still?_

Several hours later -with a solid meal in and a decent rest of his transport- he raked his hands through his curls to offset the bedhead. Sherlock leaned against the door frame between the kitchen and the living room and gazed at the figure that slept on the sofa. Having had painfully watched as John dated various women had brought him some insight of the feelings of the woman before him now. Still, he asked the questions to himself.

_How do you handle this with such grace, Doctor Molly Hooper?_

“Sherlock?” Molly’s sleep filled voice reached him. He did not answer as he hoped she’ll fall back asleep.

“I know you’re standing there by the kitchen, Sherlock.” There was slight amusement in her voice as she suppressed a yawn.

“And how do you know that?” Curiosity got the better of him, he had to ask.

“You’re blocking the light that comes through from the back. It reflects off the TV screen when it’s off, or when there’s a dark scene on.” Her hand lazily waved in the direction of the television.

Sherlock moved aside, the light in question reflected from the dark screen again. He perched on the back edge of the couch, and smiled down on her. “Very good Ms. Hooper!”

“I see and observe; when it’s my office or my house.” She pulled the throw around her and sat up. Her brown hair, usually pulled from her face some sort of way when she works, was now unbound slid over her shoulder as she pushed it away. “What do you need?”

_[“What do you need?”]_

_[“You.”]_

He smiled inwardly at the memory as he replied.

“I’m fine, Molly. The only thing I need is to say thank you and for you to get into your own bed. How you always manage to convince me to sleep in it with you out here is beyond me.”

“That’s how I know you need it most. There’s a look, a way you get, when you’ve pushed yourself too far, too hard, like today. I cannot cajole you otherwise.” She let the throw fall to the sofa as she walked around and stood in front of him. Even in the darkened room he saw the earnestness in her eyes. “And you let me do it because you know you need the company that’s never going to ask anything of you in return. Never ask anything of you that I know you cannot give. ”

_Not that it stops you from wanting it regardless._

There was nothing he could say, he knew she was right. Even with her blind love of him, she had always been able to see through him.

“Thank you. You’re too good to me.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Now off to bed you. I’ll let myself out once you’ve tucked yourself in. Goodnight, Molly Hooper.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes.” She blushed slightly as she shuffled off to her room with a yawn.

> Molly had given him the keys to her home years ago.  One night he entered her house in a drug infused haze that he did not recall when he woke up in her bed fully dressed, even in his coat. Only his shoes had been removed, his phone charged on the nightstand. She had tea made when he reached the kitchen and wordlessly handed him a cup before she went to take a shower, but her utter disappointment in him had needed no words. As soon as he heard the taps turned on he fled. The surprise and shame of his actions kept him from St. Bartholomew’s for nearly two months.
> 
> The silence broken at last when she texted him regarding a decomposing body that she thought he would like to see. It was something as she had started doing a couple of years previous whenever she encountered something she thought would pique his interest. He understood this was an olive branch. When he arrived in the morgue the pathologist started prattling on and on and on about some gleeful show on the telly or another as he studied the body. A full ten minutes later, when he couldn’t take the drone of her voice anymore he finally snarked at her. She blinked a semi-hurt “Okay.” before the most rueful smile graced her face. He realized then she had annoyed him on purpose. And just like that they were back to normal, well what was normal for them anyway. Her only acknowledgement of his break-in was to wordlessly place a set of keys in his hand before she walked away.
> 
> When she arrived home two evenings later she found a locksmith waiting for her with new keys in his hand. A new door, with new locks and a chain - one that a strung out drug addict could not easily pick- had been installed. Again, she said nothing to Sherlock - no call, no email, no text. When he next returned to St. Barts he found a new set of keys in his coat pocket upon leaving. The same keys he held in his hand now as he waited for her to retire.

He listened as she climbed into her bed. He heard when she sniffed her pillow deeply and the soft “Oh!” that followed.

When he woke up in her bed, the scent of her filled his nostrils. He decided to try to pay her in kind. He rubbed his hair and face briskly against the pillows and along the edge of the top sheet most likely to be near her face. He felt like a prime arse for it now in light of her admission moments ago.

_We cannot command our love, but we can command our actions._

“I know it is so incredibly selfish to want this of you, but you are my one constant now; you cannot leave me.” He whispered more to himself than to her in the dark; partially hated himself for the weakness in his need of it.

_Even now, knowing that while I do greatly care for you, in my fashion, I will never love you in that way. I will never love you as much as you still love me. But no, I cannot let you leave me._

He let himself out.

_For who will I have then?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Alicia Keys "If I Ain't Got You"
> 
> “We cannot command our love, but we can command our actions.”  
> \--Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


	18. I'm An Ever Spinning Top, Whirling Around Till I Drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't always get what you want.

_Four years previous…_

There was an unnatural silence in Medical. They had lost one of their own.

Captains Watson and Eades, Lieutenant Simmons, and Second Lieutenants Fisher and Shin sat in the main tent as they commiserated over their fallen colleague, Lieutenant Leslie Jamie Blackman, who had been shipped home earlier that day.

John, the doctor on duty, had told them how he was informed _Leslie is a fine doctor_ , _Leslie is good surgeon. You will find Leslie to be a fine asset to the team_. Major Donnery especially had managed to tell John a lot about Leslie, except that Leslie was a male.

“Donnery, the bastard, was there for introductions when Leslie walked in. He was clearly enjoying my two seconds of _what the?”..._ John stopped, looked up quickly as his doctor sense kicked in. Someone had rushed through the main doors, headed quickly towards them.

“We need a doctor!” Two agents, Grant and Brighton – John could never remember who was who as they seemed to always be together - burst through the surgery doors as they supported a third, Agent Petrushenka hobbled in. John immediately surged forward to serve.

“Oh no. Not. You.” The agent shook her head, stopped him.

“Oh for God’s sake! You want to wait four more hours for Eades to come on duty, fine.” John folded his arms across his chest, pointedly looked at the blood that trailed on the floor, “I wouldn’t suggest it though because you’re making a mess in my surgery.”

“Agent?” The one supported on her right, John believed it is Grant, looked to her.

“No!”

“John, I can take her…” Eades started to stand.

“Yes, thank you.” Mary nodded gratefully, pushed off Grant and Brighton, who happily backed away, but the one John thought might be Brighton looked to him pleadingly.

“No. Thank you.” John cut Mary off and pointed at Eades, “Eades, _I_ am the doctor on duty, you sit down. This is the Royal Army, I don’t get to choose what patients come through these door, the patients don’t get to choose which doctor behind these door treats them.”

“But if you don’t want to….” Eades started, but shut up at John’s raised brow.

“I DON’T want to, it’s my JOB to.” John snarled at Eades who sat back down. John turned back to Mary, “Agent Petrushenka. Get. Your. Arse. On. The. Sodding. Table.”

The tension between them was palpable as they started yelling at each other.  

John’s barely maintain equilibrium after having returned to the army all but shattered the day Mary and her team appeared at his base. Officially there under her birth name, she and her team had been in and out of the base on various assignments for several months since then. By now most of the base were privy to the barely controlled hostilities whenever the two were in each other’s presence. His last moment insertion on a recon mission was by his own request because he learned she was coming in and he was in no mood to deal with her. Most assumed they were ex-lovers of a relationship that ended badly, which was close enough to the truth. Only the personnel in the room at the time when they dropped their marital bomb knew the truth. It was quickly decided to keep that information heavily classified as neither John nor Mary wanted a connection made between Captain John Watson and Agent Rosamund Petrushenka.

Eades, Simmons, Fisher, Shin, Grant and Brighton watched the fireworks. John was not sure, but he thought it was Brighton who pantomimed eating popcorn.

_Christ! I don’t have time for this sodding shite, Mary, Agent, whatever!_

He stalked over to medical supplies, pulled on gloves and started preparing a syringe. Fisher gasps, then grinned. Eades, Shin and Simmons jaws dropped more bemused than amused. Brighton and Grant observed the doctors’ reactions, but watch Mary. A moment later the former nurse at his clinic stared daggers at John as what he has done and what it meant hit her.

John knew the exact moment she realized it.

“Remember Jordan?” He asked a little too sweetly.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Mary grimaced, clearly she remembered the patient who had an unexpected reaction to a drug and accidentally broke their receptionist’s arm in a hallucinogenic rage . No one could get near him until John ran up and climbed the back of the over six-foot-tall, 21 stone-plus man and injected him with a sedative. In her condition, as Grant and Brighton now stood to far away from her to help, she knew John would get to her before her men stopped him.

_IF they even bothered to try._

“Wouldn’t I?” John countered as he depressed the plunger slightly to remove any air bubbles and took a menaced step forward.

Mary limped to the exam table and hoisted herself up. John smirked, capped the syringe.

“Doctors, while I’m sure you’d love more domestic entertainment for the gossip mill tonight, I do now in fact have a patient, however reluctant she may be. Everybody out. That includes you Frick and Frack.” John turned to the motley crew before him and waited. His face is calm, but all sensed the simmering undertone and departed.

He turned to his patient when the room emptied “Strip.”

“What?” She balked.

“You do remember that lovely subject from your nursing days covering cross-contamination? I don’t know where the fuck you’ve been I don’t want to risk it.” He spoke to her as if he addressed a reticent child. One hand ran through his hair, the other handed her the hospital gown he had at the ready. “Looks like you’re slowly but steadily bleeding out of a femoral artery with that much blood. I don't know how you're still standing. So for Christ sakes, shut up and strip.”

He turned his back, gathered what he needed as she changed. When heard her being still, he turned back. She is in the hospital gown seated on the table again.  She did not look at him as he pulled up a stool, pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and clinically moved her thigh to get a better look of the injured thigh.

_It would be high on the inside thigh. Way too close for comfort._

He knew why she hadn't wanted him to work on her or and why she wouldn't look at him. The knife wound was deep and days old. She or someone from her team had stitched it in field, in a rush from the looks of it - it was now dehisced. He was appalled she had not come in sooner, she knew better than that.

_That’s right, she knows better ._

“Back-to-back assignments, no time until now.” John thought out loud. Mary recognized it was a statement, not a question and had not responded, yet he felt her slight twitch and knew he was correct.

_She’s either not going to or can’t answer me anyway._

_Don’t dwell on it Watson, you have a patient._

He gave her a short nod and started to work.

From having worked with him at the clinic, Mary also sensed the moment the John lost himself in the job. He was no longer a soldier, no longer a husband, he was _a_ _doctor_. Who she was before she hobbled into his surgery, who she will be again when she hobbled out, meant nothing. In that moment she was one thing, the ONLY thing that existed for him – _his patient_. It always amused her that John would get so frustrated with Sherlock when the detective went into his mind palace, zoned out the world in order to solve a problem, when John had the almost same dedicated focus himself when it came to his patients. Especially, a patient in crisis.  He was shot in the shoulder because he had not heard as the bullets got closer around him while he worked intensely trying to save the life of a badly wounded soldier.  

 _Nothing short of a mortar exploding in his ear is going to break his concentration now_ , she thinks.

“Are you going to put it back or fix it if it heals neatly enough?” He glanced up at her near the end, applied antibiotic ointment over the newly closed sutures.

 _Except the memory of an old tattoo…_ she corrected herself.

“I doubt it. I did not get it voluntarily. I kept it to remind me to not be that stupid again. If I have a scar, it will serve a similar purpose.” She answered after a while, looked at the spot inside her left thigh, where it used to be, the tattoo all but obliterated by sutures now. She looked at John’s handiwork, but her mind was elsewhere. And wherever it was, it was not necessarily pleasant.

John’s finger ghosted over the area, taped sterile gauze over it. He could still see the tiny Asian chop in his mind’s eye.

He had asked about it the first, well technically second, time they had sex. She gave the impression it was simply one of those things that belonged to the _stupid things I did when I was young_ files. He never questioned it again; he had no right to now.

Besides he was pretty sure she would dissemble. Though it began with one, this was now one of the longest stretches of time they had spent in each other’s company that had not devolved into an argument.

_Maybe just this once we can get out of here civilly._

He realized his hands were still on her thighs as he sat between them. He would never have lingered so long with any other female patient. He won’t do it here. Something else to which he no longer had a right. He quickly backed away and removed his gloves.

“The comfort of the familiar, doctor?” Mary slid from the table, reached for her clothes.

“Something like that.” He admitted, his back to her again.

“I guess I should be glad it’s not the _contempt_ of…”

“Oh, can we NOT…” John had heard the not-so-gentle-mocked note in her voice. He turned to her and whatever words he was about to say failed.   He was concentrated on the wound on her thigh. Given their dynamic, he had thought nothing of how Mary had the gown wrapped tight around her torso.

The gown was now on the patient table. She stood only in her underwear and bandages, her torso was on full display. A torso someone had used as a punching bag within the past week going by the bruises. He looked at her in shock.

“What in God’s name have you been doing?!”

Mary gave him a scathed look.

“It’s above your pay grade, Captain.”

_And here we go!_

She hurried to dress, forced her arms into her shirt, winced slightly as she rushed into her trousers.

John pinched the bridge of his nose again, took an exasperated breath and walked to the medicine cabinet.

“Please, slow down before you pop the damn sutures – again.” John had not tried to help her, knowing better. He had make an effort to control his voice. “Can we try to be professionals here?”

“Only if we don’t speak to each other.”

“Seriously? What are you - twelve? Fine! Can I speak to you long enough to give you some Paracetamol?” He handed her a packet of pills.

He saw it in her face, she was about to say she wouldn’t need them. They both knew damned well she would. He stalked over to her, shoved them in a pocket.

“Brighton! Grant!” John called out, because he knew a least one of them was still on the premises.

“Yes, Captain.”

John thought it was Grant who answered, confirmed it as the man stuck his head in.

“Agent Petrushenka is ready to go.”

He did not bother to look at her as he called out follow up care and revisit instructions before they left. He started cleaning up.

It’s been almost two years since everything happened. Technically they are still married. Well, he was married to Mary Watson anyway, besides he was the one who had walked out on her. He knew she had sold the house, from Greg and Molly, but had no idea where she had gone until she and her team appeared at his base. In spite of Mycroft's warning John has been back to London on leave. He and his sister may not always have the best relationship, but he was not cutting himself away from the only blood he had left. He had not flaunted it, but he had not hidden. When he wasn't killed after the second visit, he assumed Harry was his Switzerland. He yet had to file for divorce in either visit. John knew Mary had been back as well, and nor had she. They were both excuses to the other to keep interested parties at bay; at least that what he used the marriage for. _Five Continent Watson_ was no more. If he was ever going to be twisted up in sheets christening the other two continents he wanted it to be with…

_A vision of Sherlock floated across John’s mind--  Sherlock sitting haughty as ever in Buckingham Palace, smirking naughtily while wrapped in nothing but a sheet ..._

_How Sherlock’s eyes gleam when a good case comes across his path – “There’s no point in my_ leaving the flat for anything less than a seven.” _..._

_Sherlock’s absolute love for The Work ..._

John had not wanted to think about, to remember these things, yet that is exactly what he did...

_Mercurial eyes alight with delighted mischief as he flipped the stolen ashtray in the taxi. The ashtray Sherlock took for no other reason than John had joked about nicking one for himself..._

_Laughter in hallways... Giggles at crime scenes..._

_No! No, Watson, don’t do it to yourself. Not Again!_

It was already too late when intense crystalline eyes, sharp cheekbones, popped-up collars, cupid bow lips and a rich tenor voice ghosted his psyche, right before they were supplanted by images of that same face bloodied and covered in contusions.

_GODDAMMIT!_

John dropped to his knees, arms clutched tightly about him as he gritted his teeth.

Desperate to purge thoughts of his former flatmate, he grabbed onto the only other thought he hadn’t realized he was still thought until it came to the forefront.

_She didn’t get it voluntarily? What the hell did that mean?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Friends of Distinction “Going In Circles”


	19. And Now That Things Are Changing For The Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John woke up to gagged and bound to a chair that was bolted to the floor.  
> Well that is a bit not good.

_Three years previous:_

Watson had served on his fourth mission in as nearly as many weeks. All of them dangerous places.  He wanted to say he was surprised, but he was not.

_I guess Mycroft is having a bad week, remembered I’m out here and taking it out on me._

His squad staggered in an early dawn patrol to a new location about fifteen clicks out from the previous.  Sweepers were set out first - they scanned and gave the all clear a path, but it was never an exact science. Ninety-nine soldiers can follow the exact footstep of the soldier before him without incident.

And then there’s that one hundredth.

They were ten clicks from their destination when his stomach dropped as he heard the familiar sound of an IED. He looked over and saw the smoke column go up before him. He ran before the screams for medic reached him. His knees and TacMed pack hit the ground simultaneously as he gritted his teeth at what was in front of him. Or rather at was not in front of him.

The lower half of the soldier’s legs.

John glanced at the name as he pulled on gloves, immediately pulled out scissors, tactical tourniquets, haemostatic gauze, field dressings, splints and Morphine. “I got you! Whitman! I got you, son!”

The doctor nods gratefully as Staff Sargent Belvin, a new on his mission, dropped next to him and grabbed the tourniquet. It is still a little dark so he turned on a small torch to light the area as he cut  away the uniform shreds embedded in what is left of the thigh as John administered massive amounts of morphine.

“Call it! We’re going to need a medivac out of here!”

He idly heard the command for the call passed down to communications.

He barely heard the shot that whizzed through Belvin’s sleeve that left a hole as its sole evidence. Belvin immediately grabbed the torch and turned it off, when the next shot made contact and grazed him. He shoved the scissors in the front of John’s vest easily reached with one hand even as he reached for his rifle with the other to give John cover as he continued working.

Hard lesson learned from when he got shot in the shoulder - a part of him now listened to the "pops" and "whistles" of rounds as he worked. Some passed overhead. Some in the air. There are more shots from the other side than from his squad.

_My God, we are being picked off one-by-one!_

A shot hits Whitman…

_I know that sound..._

Whitman’s lung has collapsed, and he still bled.

_Fuck! Fuck! Where the fuck is it?!_

The doctor tore through his pack until he found it.

“Are you using duct tape?!” Belvin voiced his incredulousness as he still partially observed even as he returns fire.

John barely nodded as he worked, securing gauze to stop the blood flow he wrapped Whitman in a thermal blanket he heard the _Medevac_ chopper. 

“You hear that Whitman. That’s your ride out of here!” He is right in Whitman’s face. He screamed at the man, tried to keep him conscious and, essentially, tried to keep him alive.  Grateful to have felt the blast of air from the helicopter as it landed and saw the rescue crew with the stretcher as they ran to him.

John has rapidly packed his gear, gave a rundown of Whitman’s injuries to the crew with the stretcher when they heard it…

…And John is suddenly airborne without benefit of being in the helicopter.

<>==========<>

John woke up to gagged and tied to a chair that was bolted to the floor.

 _Well that was a bit not good_.

At least three days had past, going solely by how his body felt. He had no true indication of time. He vaguely remembered that he hit the ground hard after the helicopter was blown, voices in Pashto and Dari and then nothing. He woke up once, laid out on a floor, his neck collared and chained to a wall. Before he could get to a full sitting position he felt the needle prick and he was out again.

_It’s an improvement, I think._

He pulled against his restraints, he was definitely tied down securely. He was still dressed in his uniform and otherwise okay; Captain Watson scanned the room.

_Assessment: Modern. Air conditioned._

Three out of the four walls he saw had far too many restraints at varying heights for his tastes, two of which looked like they were used recently. A cushioned table such as a masseuse would use was off to his side, equally festooned with restraints. He was now acutely grateful for the chair, in light of the other options around him.

 _Don’t look up Captain_ , he did anyway and winced, _ya chains_ attached to a winch.

He saw some sort of industrial looking cabinet of tools. When he considered that he was clearly in a room designed for various means of torture, he did not want to think about what tools were in there.

It was only after a few moments of having done exactly that he realized he was not alone in the room. Steady breath not his own reached his ears. They were equally restrained, directly behind him because he could not see the person at all. He was about to make noise to get attention when he heard a bolt slide to an unseen door. He dropped his head as if still asleep as someone entered the room. The room is assailed with thumping dance music. John barely kept his head down, the onslaught of it nearly made him jump. The sudden silence that follows when the door shut again is terrifying.

_A club on one side. A sound proof on the other. No one will hear any screams._

Heavy boots. Solid steps, likely a male. Confirmed when a throaty chuckle sounded behind him.

“Time to wake up darling.”

_Darling?_

The sound of someone being slapped hard was heard. Then slapped again. He heard a gasp and realized the other person was female.

“There you are. Let’s have a chat.”

“Fuck you Moran.” A hoarse voice spat out.

_Mary?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Jamiroquai “Virtual Insanity”


	20. This Is The Fear, This Is The Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s voice thundered as his fist connected with Mycroft’s jaw causing him to stagger into the glass window wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are gold.

_Three years previous…_

Mycroft shut off the video, moved to sit beside his brother and waited.

There is a long moment of silence as Sherlock stared at the blank screen as though the video still plays. His fingers steepled beneath his chin while he thought.

Sherlock, Mycroft, Lady Smallwood and two other minor officials, whose names and codenames Sherlock should not know - yet all there knew he did - sat in the same conference room where they had shown Sherlock the “official” video of the Magnussen shooting.  He glanced at the new secretary when he entered, his mind automatically went to Vivian Norbury. If Mycroft noticed his wince as he shook off the memory, he had not acknowledged it.

“The first two were assassinated in the same room. The third elsewhere, perhaps in the same edifice. Perhaps another country all together. They know what they are doing keeping the rooms purposely non-descript. The hand, the shooter, is the same in all three. He’s patient. Three months between the first and the second, four between the second and this. He’s also something of a sadist from the injuries he inflicts.  He uses his fists because it’s more pleasurable to him, but he’s also used canes and cattle prods by the look of some of the bruising. From their injuries he has had them at least two weeks before killing them. He’s using The London Times for each.” Sherlock spoke at last. “The Times, is a key, if the papers are real.”

“They are real.” Mycroft stated. Sherlock flicked his eyes at him.

“The first two bodies were were found with the papers. The third body has not been discovered as of yet to confirm. The papers had each respective agent’s blood in the splatter consistent with their execution, but no prints. We expect the pattern to hold the same with the third when found.” Neville, aka Seal spoke.

“I would still like to examine them. Send them to Bartholomew, with whatever else you’ve found.” Sherlock pulled out his mobile to let Molly know what was coming and continued a rapid staccato of typing on his mobile as he researched, “All of the death’s occurred with a day or so of the paper’s date.  Are any other agents missing? Why the delay? If they want to use the most current publication, it takes that long for it to be delivered or at least received. What is the Times subscription reach?”

Sherlock had not looked up, but Lady Smallwood answered in her usual clipped, I-am-not-one-to-be-trifled-with tones. “We showed you videos of soldiers, you asked about agents. Why?” Her expression clearly said _Nice try, but yes, I am listening_.

Sherlock spared her a sneer as he continued his research, “You do not waste my time for soldiers. Soldiers get caught and executed more than we like to admit. It is accepted with the job descriptions. They know this when they sign on - whatever their reasons. Soldiers die, they are not my worry.” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed at that, Smallwood’s brow quirked briefly, Sherlock ignored them both and addressed Neville “There is something different in play now. What is it?”

Mycroft looked around the room. Each minor official in the room nodded consent, before he nodded to Neville who clicked on an icon for another file and pressed play.

The scene opened on several CCTV that captured all of the sight and some of the sounds of Kalenić pijaca, a bustling open air-market. The sharp yell of a woman is head moments before her figure burst upon different screens. She is dressed in an abaya, her head wrapped in a shayla all you can really see of her face are her eyes, but even that is hard in all the action as a group of men in pursuit came into view moments later.  Sherlock’s eyes went wide, shifted quickly between the various camera angles, followed the action.  The woman ran hard, ducked and dove between stalls and people. It was apparent the length of the abaya slowed her down. 

It became a moot point as a vendor got a fortuitous grab of her sleeve and swung her into another vendor. The pull of second vendor brought her to her knees. Still she fought hard and dirty. Sherlock glanced at Mycroft who nodded once in confirmation of the unasked question. She easily brought down the first vendor. A scream of pain is heard when the second vendor, a burly man, grabbed his arm in a way that indicated something broken by the scream. The skirmish between her and the two vendors was over quick, but it was enough for her pursuers to catch up. One man came up behind her, put her in a choke hold as another immediately pulled out a syringe. The one who had her in a hold stayed there until he was sure the sedative had taken effect.  Only when her body slackened he pulled off her Shayla, revealed her face and Sherlock nodded in the confirmation that it is a face he knew. The various footage ends as she was carried away into a building.

“Petrushenka.”

He looked at the dates on the cameras. “They’ve had her eleven days. You think she’s next.”

“That’s the thing, Sherlock.” Eggleton, code name Static, who had been silence throughout most of this finally spoke. “Once the other agents were noted as missing, their respective videos broadcast within four days. Their bodies found within seven. We’ve had nothing for her or from her.”

Sherlock glanced around the room as the implications fly through his mind his gaze landed sharply on his brother at last.

_You ARE joking, brother mine._

_I am afraid not little brother._

Sherlock stood up and walked to the window wall, slowly shook his head in the negative.

_No. No. No._

Only because this was his brother whom he knew so well does Mycroft see the minute tremor that flashed across his otherwise placid face, saw something in his brother’s eyes he had not seen since before his rescue.

Fear.

Sherlock knew despite his best effort Mycroft saw the minute cracks in his nonchalant façade. It took all he had not to wince as memory reminded him of the feel of the scars on his back when they were nearly created.

_Mycroft was there with me. He saw. He knows this. He knows!_

“Mycroft?” Neville spoke.

Mycroft held up a hand, followed Sherlock to the window wall, even as Lady Smallwood herself lifted a delicate finger to Neville, and silenced him. She knew what was being asked of the younger Holmes brother. She knew the elder Holmes brother would be the only person who would be able to get him to do it. She did not envy Mycroft one bit as she left him to it.

The two impeccably dressed brothers stood side by side, their limbs long, their backs ramrod straight, their hands in their trouser pockets, looked out the window to the world around them. The bright day light caught the auburn tones in their dark hair. It was one of the few times you saw the physical similarities between them.

Mycroft is silent as he gave his brother time.

“How can you ask me to go back there?” Sherlock’s voice was tight, barely above a whisper.

“You know why.” Was Mycroft’s response. The silence hung between them a few moments more.

_I cannot do this. Not even for her._

“She’s an agent. She knew the risks.” Sherlock was not able to look at Mycroft as he said it.

Mycroft’s sole blink was his total response to the shock at what he knew it must have taken for Sherlock to say that out loud, let alone what it cost him in the heart he claimed to not have to even think it. He started to speak, but pressed his lips into a thin line instead as he glanced at his baby brother.

Mycroft knew his brother would despise him for it, but it had to be done. He only hoped he would be forgiven.

Eventually.

He braced himself before he spoke again.

“Then do it for him.”

Sherlock whipped his head to Mycroft completely stunned. He could not have hidden his utter appalment at the cold audacity of his older brother had he even thought to do so.  

“Oh, that is LOW, even for you, Iceman.” Sherlock snarled dangerously.

Mycroft had chose the course, he continued on it.

“He’s out of your life. She’s all he has left, really. Someone who will know him… Someone who will understand him…”

“Say not one more word to me,  Mycroft!”

Sherlock’s voice thundered as his fist connected with Mycroft’s jaw, the impact staggered the elder Holmes into the window wall. He knew Mycroft had expected it and he had not wanted to disappoint him in this. His green eyes flashed with a fury that made the older brother take a step back as Sherlock stalked away from the window. Lady Smallwood herself blinked at what she saw in Sherlock’s eyes as he faced those who sat on the dais again.

If Mycroft was Glacier in that moment, then Sherlock was Lava. Either way it burned.

The stunned silence in the room was broken only by Sherlock’s forced breathing as he wrangled his emotions back in check. With a quick flash to his brother still behind him he addressed the others in the room again.

“You think they are holding her. She knows something and you want me to get her.”

It was not a question.

“Yes.” Static confirmed.

“Unofficially unsanctioned of course.”

“Yes.” Seal confirmed.

“And if she is compromised?”

“Take her down.” Love unflinchingly confirmed.

“Will you retrieve our agent?” Antarctica, worked his jaw, stood beside his brother again.

Sherlock closed his eyes, took slight pleasure that his brother stood just out of his reach. The memories he buried away deep, deep in the bowels of his mind palace rattled at his psyche. When he opened them again he stared straight at his brother. Mycroft stoically accepted the fury that still blazed there as he knew Sherlock had come to a decision.

“Will you go to Serbia?” Antarctica asked again.

“Yes.” Coda confirmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Calvin E. Taylor - "Why" ”
> 
> An abaya is the loose-fitting full-length robe worn by some women in Muslim countries. 
> 
> A shayla is a long, rectangular scarf. It is wrapped around the head and tucked or pinned in place at the shoulders. 
> 
> And why is Sherlock “Coda”? In music, theatre and writing the coda is an independent passage, at the end of a composition, introduced to bring it to a satisfactory close. It is something that serves to round out, conclude, or summarize and usually has its own interest. As a drama queen, who composes his own music on the violin, solves crimes and tries to have the final word in everything – is it not perfect?


	21. Life Is Bigger, Bigger Than You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lady gives her two pence...

_Three years previous…_

“Sir? Lady Smallwood is here to see you.” Anthea spoke through the intercom.

Mycroft took out his pocket watch, checked the time and sighed.

_37 minutes._

He knew why she was there when he saw her face during the meeting with Sherlock. He expected the visit. He took a deep breath before he granted her entrance.

She nodded her thanks to his PA who held the door open for her. Elizabeth’s low heels clicked softly on the floor as she passed, took a seat in front of his desk. Anthea pointedly flicked her eyes at the empty cup on his desk. He just as pointedly shifted his eyes in the negative. He had not wished to be interrupted for this. Anthea dipped her head in acknowledgement and closed the door.

“Who slowed you down?” Mycroft he gave her a brief glance as he continued work on his computer.

“Neville, wanting further confirmation that Sherlock will come through.”

Mycroft eyes narrowed oh so slightly, he was greatly offended at this doubt of his brother’s abilities. Were her eyes not directly on him, had not known him as well as she had, she would have missed it.

“You know he will.” He voice frosted over.

“I told Neville as much.”

A silence lingered as Mycroft continued work. He was not going to volunteer what she was not willing to ask.

“Shall I guess what you said to him to get him to agree?”

“If you must.” He purposely sounded bored. It irked him when she dawdled around information and he knew she knew it did.

“No wonder he punched you, bringing up Watson like that. That is low, even for you, Mycroft. “

“Almost his exact words as he hit me. I do what I must to get the job done. Sherlock needed the push.” Mycroft fingers danced across the keyboard as he moved his still slightly tender jaw. 

_I keep forgetting that lanky frame can pack quite the wallop._

“Stop it, Mycroft. You should have told him and let him decide fully informed.” She quirked a brow at him at his words. Her look clearly told him to go sell that bridge to someone else, she was not buying it. He ignored it.

_She thinks she knows me._

“How can he be fully informed when even we are not, Lady Smallwood?” Mycroft looked up and held her gaze.  

“You use John as leverage to get him to take the mission, but you don’t tell Sherlock he’s missing? You didn’t tell John that Sherlock was alive. You saw what it did to John. What do you think will happen with Sherlock should he find out accidentally while on the mission?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed slightly, one hand reached out and tapped his desk.

_Oh, now who is playing low, Alicia?_

“We’ve sifted through the helicopter wreckage and surrounding areas. All but three of the squad on that patrol are accounted for. The missing are Corporal White, Private Doucette and Captain Watson. That was three days ago. Telling Sherlock without all the data would be much worse. My brother is fine. Trust me on this. John Watson is nothing more than a distraction. A little scrap of ordinariness. Besides, you heard what Sherlock said. _Soldiers die, they are not my worry_.” Mycroft’s eyes went back to his computer screen. He looked at everything, saw nothing.

_Oh Sherlock! You lied when you said that about John then, as I am lying to Elizabeth about you now._

Her steady gaze went soft as she leaned forward in her seat and studied Mycroft's face, “But he is _your_ worry, regardless.”

He knew she saw the slight lip twitch, one of the few tells of his she had learned over the many years they worked together. She tentatively reached out across the desk and laid hers on top of his. He hadn’t realized his eyes had closed at the contact until he opened them and studied her face in turn.

> Even before he opened his eyes, he knew that he had not been touched with Love’s hand. Early in their careers, when on a joint mission, Love’s touch –rare as it was even then, only in the course of work- was always firm, even when she played at being nervous or scared or amorous if the role called for it. He also knew Elizabeth's touch. The handshakes of work, the more casual common touches of long standing colleagues. This was not it. This tentativeness, this softness, this minute tremor of her pinky against atop his, this _touch_ was Alicia.
> 
> This was the third time Mycroft had felt Alicia’s touch in all their years of having known each other. The last time was when they all thought they were sending Sherlock off to die after the Magnussen shooting. Minutes before he left HQ she had called him to her office privately. When he arrived she said nothing. She quietly walked up to the man, moved his umbrella to hook it on his wrist and took both of his hands in hers, squeezing them meaningfully, as meaningfully as her grey gazed into his blue. Mycroft was as stunned by the touch as he was by how much he realized he had appreciated it. The stark realization in the moment of not having understood how much he had wanted it, _how much he had needed it_ , until it happened. For the first time in many, many years he was rendered speechless as his mind blanked for a long moment. She merely quirked an amused brow at him as his mind came back before she just as quietly had let go of his hands, walked back to her desk and resumed her work as though the moment never happened.
> 
> They never spoke of it.
> 
> After the “official” video of the shooting was released. He called her to his office. Though she had said little at the debriefing and took none of the credit, he knew she was the one who had spearheaded the creation of the doctored video. When the door closed behind her, he said nothing. Simply walked up to her, leaned in and kissed her cheek. The faint aroma of Claire de Lune and her own unique scent wafted into his nostrils as he the touch of his lips on her cheek lingered a tad longer than what one might have considered appropriate. He enjoyed the quick intake of her startled breath at the contact. She stood there as stunned as he had been then. It was his brow that rose as he returned to his desk to work. It was his _thank you_ and the single nod of her head before she left the office was her _you’re welcome_.
> 
> And like when she had held his hands, they never spoke of it. 

He looked at the soft manicured fingers that laid gently on top of his and remembered the first time.  

_Maybe she does know me somewhat after all._

“Always.” He conceded as he interlaced his long fingers with her delicate ones for a few seconds before he let go.

_Delicate fingers that can whip that Walther PK 380 from her purse and make a head shot on a 50 yard target at the range, according to her last test scores._

They will never speak of this either he mused.

“Still, I cannot tell my brother that Captain Watson might be dead.”

“Captain Watson might be alive.” She countered.

“Then where in the hell is he?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from R.E.M. “Losing My Religion”
> 
> "John Watson is nothing more than a distraction. A little scrap of ordinariness." Some of you will recognize the line from S4E3 "The Final Problem." S4E2 & S4E3 never happened in this story's timeline, but I have and will borrow lines freely where they fit.


	22. Now The Damage Is Done, I Can’t Escape I Can’t Run

_Three years previous…_

It took EVERYTHING John had not to snap his head up at that moment. He knew there was nothing he could do but listen.

_Sebastian Moran? Sherlock had said the man escaped him in Munich._

John remembered the ex-mercenary aka Jim Moriarty’s favored bodyguard, henchman and sniper. The tall, blond former military man that looked like he could bench press a Volkswagen. At the pool, it was Moran who strapped John into the SemTex vest as Jim watched grinning, the barrel of Moriarty’s gun inches from the bridge of his nose. John quickly shut that memory away before it took hold.

_No time for that Watson. Focus on what’s likely to be your future nightmare._

“Fuck me? You did, darling, several times back in the day.” The man snickered with amusement.

If John knew nothing else at the moment, he knew this: Mary and Moran used to be lovers in the past. Moran knew exactly who John was to Mary now and Moran knew John was awake to hear this. Mary likely had no idea John was literally right behind her, but she was going to find out soon.

_Oh Christ no!_

A cold shiver crept up his spine as he realized something. He gave up on the subterfuge and lifted his head, waited for more painful secrets to be revealed.

“What the fuck do you want Moran? I told you and Moriarty before it all went to hell I’m not working for you ever again.”  Mary snarled.

John heard when Moran backhanded her again.

“Fuck! At least take the ring off!”

“You’re going to die soon enough. What do I care if I damage my property? Besides, it’s _your_ engagement ring. Your husband has good taste in rings.” Moran walked away, grabbed a chair, and dragged it to the side of Mary where he could see both John's and Mary’s expressions. John got his first look at his captor.

Just as tall and blond as John remembered. His hair used to be worn slightly longer than military regulation short, now it almost grazed his shoulders. He wore fatigue pants and combat boots with a plain black t-shirt. And while Sebastian was not the massive monster that sometimes haunted John's nightmares of the pool, the man was still large. His eyes still held a certain menace.

_Still, not someone to be caught by in a back alley._

The man beamed knowingly at John’s recognition as he continued.

“I find it interesting you carry your wedding ring around like your dog tags. Isn’t that against regulations? But who is going to quibble protocol with their one of their ace assassins right? Did you know back in Roman times they believed that the vein in the ring finger on the left hand ran directly to one's heart. Because of this belief, they called that vein the "vena amoris" or vein of love.”

“Oh for Christ sakes, Moran, if you’re going to kill me, fucking kill me already. Unless you’re trying to bore me to death.” Mary huffed. The way she spoke his name, it was very close to sounding like _moron_.

John mentally smirked behind his gag, he couldn’t help it.

_That’s my girl._

“Kill you? Eventually yes, but not now, oh no. And you will do whatever I want you to do. I own you, remember? That scar on your thigh? It was a nice idea to try to hide your mark, but we both know not all of your old _Johns_ cared back then. The new ones won’t either.” Moran voiced a silken threat. “Hey, you still do that thing with your tongue?”

John blinked repeatedly as his mouth mentally dropped, though his face stayed neutral.

_The scar on her thigh? The tattoo? All of her “Johns”? And God yes, she still did._

“Piotr tattooed me at eleven. I hadn’t even st-started menses yet. Oh fuuuck.” Mary words slurred.  John realized she must have been drugged. “I was passed from owner to owner. I didn’t… didn’t know what normal w-was supposed to be for years until the CIA broke the ring looking for the diplomat’s kid.”

John bit into the gag, swallowed back the bile that threatened as the implications of her words made his stomach turn.

“Yeah, whatever - imagine my surprise the first time we fucked and I saw the tatt, knew what you were. When I told Jim he was stunned. Do you have any idea how hard it was to surprise the man? He was floored. He wanted to know how Rosamund Petrushenka an erstwhile child whore became a CIA trained assassin, then a MI6 operative who freelanced. When you retired after the Tblisi incident and disappeared we figured you were _retired_. Then we get a ping on Gabrielle Ashdow going to Morocco. Imagine my surprise when I tracked that and discovered someone who looked a hell of a lot like you going by Mary Watson. Tell me Rose. When did you fall in love with Dr. Watson? After you retired from the MI6? Or after the pool?”

_The pool? No. No. Not that! Anything, ANYTHING but that!_

“L-last minute job I took on the fly for the m-money. Jim said keep lights on the blond, but don’t shoot him, so w-we did and we did-didn’t. I didn’t know his name, I didn’t even b-bother to m-mem-memorize his face at the pool once the job was d-done. I can’t stop-stop t-talking. Why? You fucking drugged me?”

The last was more statement than question, but John had paid no heed as his mind flashed in the memory of a Semtex laden vest and the multiple red sniper dots that had shown on him and Sherlock. He gritted his teeth at the confirmation of that cold realization a few minutes earlier. 

_Mary was one of the snipers for Moriarty and her gun was trained on ME!_

Moran watched as John processed the information, then laughed as he saw the doctor reach the conclusion, patted him on the arm. John flinched away from the touch as much as his restraints allowed.

“Oh, that must have been just glorious when your husband first told you about Moriarty and the pool.”

“I wanted to crawl in a hole and die.” Mary’s choked on tears, her voice was low . “I didn’t…I didn’t deserve someone like him.”

“No Rose, the captain didn’t deserve the likes of you.” Moran snorted.

“True.”

John all but heard the shrug he knew came with that sole despondent word, heard as the woman who was still his wife sniffled back tears.

“Oh my God. You actually loved him!” Moran seemed truly appalled by the knowledge.

“Love him still. Hates me now.” There was such a finality to it.

_I don’t hate you dammit._

He had to stop this.

John started to struggle, grunted loudly as possible behind the gag. He heard Mary gasp and knew she knew.

“Moran you fucking BASTARD!” She shrieked.

“Oh, did I forget to mention something?” His voice was all innocence as he stood. John heard as Moran dragged a chair on the floor. Mary face was aghast as Moron placed Mary in front of him. She had been bound to her chair same as he, only her chair was wood and mobile. She let her head hang, unable look at him.

“Oh, where are my manners? Rose has been doing all of the talking. Wouldn’t you like to hear from your favorite John, honey?” Moran reached carefully around Watson’s head and removed the gag.

John looked the ex-mercenary straight in the face, said the only thing he had to say as he moved his jaw and tried to work out the strain around his mouth after hours of being gagged.

“I am going to fucking kill you.”

“Better men than you have tried, oh but I do wish you luck in your efforts.” Moran grinned. “I can’t wait to tattoo you and sell your ass. Some of the clients like a more mature cut of meat. Especially military cut.”

Mary’s head popped at that. John could see all the horror and fear in her eyes and knew that was not an idle threat.

“If that was supposed to shock or cower me, you really do not know me.” John scoffed, “Oh but I do wish you luck in your efforts.”

“John that was a promise, not a threat.” Mary said quietly.

“So was what I said to him.” John said just a quiet. She looked at him and blinked. He does not know what she saw in him, but whatever it was had steadied her for the moment. The captain knew the agent was back.

Moran grabbed Mary's chair, then backed her a little further away from John.  He turned and then landed several harsh blows to John’s midsection. Securely bound to the chair the body blows were unyielding. In the midst of it, Mary screamed and John idly remembered the room was sound proofed.

_No one can hear you Mary. You must know that._

Watson suspected there would have been more hits had he not all but seen the wheels as they turned in the man’s head as an idea came to fruition.

He took a deep breath and assessed himself.

_Nothing permanent, Watson, but maybe you don’t want him to do that again, okay?_

Moran glanced from John to Mary and back. Something crossed his face as he took out his mobile and made a call.

_Oh this is going to very not good indeed._

“Bring one of the new whites to the room.”

Moran walked over to a cabinet out of John’s view. He heard the cabinet doors as they opened and closed. A few minutes later there was a buzz. A moment after the door opened and the loud club music overwhelmed the room again until it closed.

Mary’s eyes went wide as she glanced to John. Whatever it was Moran had going on, John know he was not going to like it as Mary’s head dropped again.

Moran came to stand within sight of his two captives again. He held two syringes in one hand while the other was gripped around the neck of a girl in a white dress who could not have been older than nine or ten. He leaned down and whispered something in her ear. When she had not immediately complied he squeezed her neck not so gently. The girl lifted her dress on the left side and then lifted her leg exposing her inner thigh.

John turned his head as remembered Mary’s words.

_Piotr took me at eleven. I hadn’t even st-started menses yet._

He knew what he would have seen had he looked, he glanced to Mary instead who had looked and confirmed it for him. The little girl has the same tattoo that Mary had marking her as property of sex slave traffickers. 

“You bloody bastard.” Mary snarled the words for him.

“It will be for at least one of you.” Moran retorted. “Bloody that is.”

He whispered to the girl who moved and sat in the chair Moran had occupied earlier.

“One of you is going to work for me tonight. One of you is going to watch and one of you gets off free. The one who works is going to get fucked. A lot. And hard. This baby is for play; it will make it easier to bear as it will be the first night here for any of you.” He held up a syringe with a green cap. 

“This one will make you stay. You’ll sit there for a couple of hours able to see and hear what happens to the other and not be able to do a damn thing.”  He held up the other with a yellow cap.

“And best of all, Rose, as the only experienced whore here, you get to decide which of you gets to play, who gets to stay and who gets away. And no you can’t...”

“I know this game.” John interrupted, used his chin to point to the girl, “The girl gets away.”

He then pointed at a shocked Mary “Mary stays.”

"John, no!" Mary shook her head, horrified as she realized what he was going to do.

John gritted his teeth as he looked Moran in the face so there was no chance he was misunderstood.

“And I’ll _play_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from RED “Damage”


	23. Do I Sit Here And Try To Stand It?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It starts to get interesting for one and dark for another ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If they say_   
>  _Who cares if one more light goes out_   
>  _In the sky of a million stars_   
>  _It flickers, flickers_   
>  _Who cares when someone's time runs out_   
>  _If a moment is all we are_   
>  _Or quicker, quicker_   
>  _Who cares if one more light goes out_   
>  _Well I do_   
>  _~ Linkin Park "One More Light"_   
>  **  
>  **   
>  [ R.I.P. Chester Bennington - For Chester ](http://wp.me/pPury-2P3)   
> 

_Three years previous…_

Sherlock released a frustrated sigh at the current inactivity.

Sherlock had slipped out of London hours after the debriefing. Left a false trail that was sure to frustrate Mycroft to no end once he started to search. He supposed the one advantage to their semi strained relationship was that his big brother was accustomed to Sherlock slipping the reins for three or four days when involved on a case. He had to admit, it was something that became much easier to do without John by his side. He knew it was going to be at least a day before Mycroft will think to look for Sherlock. It will likely take another day or so after that before he’ll think to look for Tobias Gregson, the ID created to sneak him out of Serbia, now to be used to sneak him back in.

To match his identification, he took advantage of the genetic quirk that his facial hair grows in a lighter shade of auburn, in comparison to the much darker hair on his scalp, to start a goatee. He also had taken the precaution of a semi-quick stopover in Paris to use the services of a tanning parlor, to help further camouflage his appearance. He gave the goatee a considered rub before he donned his sunglasses and headed out to reach out to more of his contacts.

_Just let me have a day of peace before I step into that potential hell again Mycroft._

He was seated in the beautifully appointed majlis an hour later, doing research on the laptop when he heard as footsteps raced toward him. They are considerably heavier, than when he heard them last, but he recognized them nonetheless and smiled as he placed the laptop in lock mode. 

“I knew it was you!”

Karim’s toothy grin stood out bright against the mocha complexion that barely stayed contained within the limitations of the young man’s face. Sherlock had stood and braced himself for the crushing hug he thought was coming. Only it didn’t, as at the last moment Karim had stopped short and quickly assessed the man before him. Sherlock was in dark charcoal slacks and black shirt, his shoes, jacket, dishdasha and keffiyeh off to the side, at the ready, when he needed to leave. It was almost disconcerting as he watched mature look on such a still young face. Karim tamed his wide grin to a pleasant, yet closed mouth smile and held out his hand instead.

“Hello Karim, so good to see you again.” Sherlock smiled gently, clasped the offered hand. Karim’s wide grin returned, but Sherlock noted he would not greet him with the more culturally acceptable continental kiss in spite of knowing him and having been please to see him. Sherlock quickly assessed the young man in turn.

_No, he is not so little a boy anymore; he will greet me now as the foreigner I present myself to be._

“This is different.” Karim looked pointedly at the goatee and hair. “Your purpose here is different.”

“I have no purpose here. This is just a layover.”

“Ah, your purpose is elsewhere, then. Can I assist you while you are here?”

 _Picked up on that did you?_ Sherlock’s lip quirked. _Not so a little boy indeed. Just how much of YOUR concept of a Happy Family has changed?_

“What makes you think I need assistance?”

“Your friend, Mr. John is not with you. Somethings have changed since you were here last.”

 “No. No, he is not. And yes, somethings have changed.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the young man again, as his phone vibrated. “One moment.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, shook his head with amusement as he read the message.

_Please, I do not have the interest for your Where’s Waldo anti…._

He had been about to ignore it completely, when the accompanying photo downloaded.

“No…”  The amusement fled, he immediately turned and put on his shoes.

“Karim, you can assist me, after all. I need to get to this place quickly and to slip in unseen. I can find it myself, but I know you can get me there and in faster. I know you know how.” He showed Karim the picture on the phone, barely noticed the young man’s surprised face he finished dressing. Nor did he see the minute scowl that flashed, before the genial smile was back in place.

“But of course, Mr. Sherlock. I can have you there in no time at all.”

“Thank you.” He picked up his laptop, placed it in a case to sling across his body. “Let’s go.”

He glanced at the text once more rolling his eyes.

_I’m bored. Here’s where I am – can you guess? Come find me. Let’s have dinner. – IA_

<>==========<>

Moran looked to John and laughed.

Hard.

“Nice to know I can bring such joy to your life.” John smiled pleasantly as though this were afternoon tea.

“Stop it!” Mary screamed at Moran, who laughed harder at John’s remark, then turned to yell at John “Are you insane?”

“I serve in the British Army, invaded Afghanistan, lived happily with the utter prat that is His Nibs for years give, or take a couple, and remained married to YOU. I really wouldn’t hold much stock in my sanity.” John snorted, “Though to be fair, that last one may be the least insane thing of the bunch.”

“That is the bravest, the most beautiful thing I have witnessed. It brings tears to my eyes.” Moran’s sarcasm ran deep as he mocked wiped tears away, all mirth gone. He pulled out his phone again and issued orders.

“John you can’t.” Mary tried again.

“Oh but he volunteered. He can and he will.” Moran ran his hand along John’s jaw; snatched it away just in time as John’s teeth gnashed. Moran slammed a solid hook to John’s face before he grabbed John’s hair by the nape of the neck and yanked it back hard.

“Giving fellatio is definitely out for you until you’re trained not to do that.” He grinned down, his crotch at John's .

“Moran please, let me. They can’t hurt me, I’ve survived it before. John has never….” Mary started.

Moran crossed his arms across his chest, straddled John’s chair and dropped into the bound man’s lap before he could react as he pressed his crossed arm hard against John’s throat, slowly increased the pressure. John could jot maneuver his head away from the pressure, though Moran grinned nonchalantly as he tried regardless.

“Never what, Rose? Had cock up his ass?”

John started to turn colors as Moran increased the pressure.

“Sebastian stop please! STOP!” Mary screamed.

John fell forward in the restraints and wheezed hard; his face red when Moran just as quickly stood.

Moran turned to Mary genuinely surprised, “Really Rose? Never with him? But you so look good in a strap-on.”

“He had never shown interest in it.” Mary winced.

_Christ almighty, she must be drugged._

“I hadn’t had interest in it.” John groaned.

_And why the fuck did I just say that?_

She arched an eyebrow at him. John narrowed his eyes.

_DON’T. Don’t you DARE bring him into this!_

“Excellent. Your ass will be ripe for the taking. I can charge more for virgin ass.” Moran grinned viciously at John.

John couldn’t help himself, he shuddered as he looked to the floor.

The main door buzzed and four men entered. Three were in casual suits, one is in khakis and a polo shirt, but all are strapped with holstered guns and wore sunglasses.

Moran walked to them and issued orders in Serbian.

Mary rolled her eyes hard.

“Wow, that clichéd, agent?” The soldier smirked, his voice low.

She had noted the address and John saw the subtle shift from Mary to Rosamund. It was both mesmerized and disconcerted.

“The four of could not possibly BE anymore cliché.” The agent couldn’t help herself, but then her eyes landed on the bound man in front of her and shifted again. “God, John what do you think you’re doing? You can’t John. You don’t understand!”

“Oh I understand. Believe me I do. I certainly couldn’t let the little girl _play_ and I couldn’t let you play. I don’t hate you Mary, I don’t. You are still my wife and the problems of your future are still my privilege, I guess. But woman, you do have some serious problems.” He smiled  tremulously as he shrugged with a nonchalance they both knew was not felt.

Mary choked with a sound that not quite a laugh, not quite a sob; her face crumbled at the recalled words.

“Oh, what did you say to her? I hope it was “Enjoy the show”.” Moran approached, lifted Mary’s tear-stained face.

John gritted his teeth.

_You’re so going to die._

Moran pointed at two of the goons and then at Mary. John did not see which two, but he heard the draw of their weapons and saw the as lasers dotted her forehead, their intent clear.

Moran pointed at the other two who clamped on ankle and wrist restraints before they untied her from the chair and stepped away. When Moran grabbed her to pull her to a stand, John saw as the agent flexed.

_Mary No!_

So had Moran. He quickly wrenched the wrist restraints and knocked the wind out of her and dropped her to the floor via a kneed brought to her midsection.

Only the restraints that dug into his flesh kept John from lunging forward.

Moran leaned over the retching woman. “Don’t be stupid, Rose. Even if you dropped me, I still have the Captain here. What was the point?”

The doctor took a deep breath and looked her over clinically.

_She’s not eaten much if that’s all there is. Probably a good thing considering._

Mary groaned and she rolled away from the foulness, her eyes came to meet John’s. The fight was still there, but subdued. John shook his head slowly at her.

_Don’t do that again. I need you to be Agent Petrushenka, not Mary, please!_

“Take her. Get her cleaned up and take her to the gree… No, take her to the red and prepare her.”

John looked up at Moran’s change in tone. He knew it was a sudden change in the plan when one of the goons seemed surprised _and apprehensive_ at the order. Whatever Moran said in his reply, Mary went completely pale as she looked at her husband, the fight gone.

_That cannot be good._

“Do it!” Moran barked. The two who untied her walked out with her, again the blast of club music as the door to the room opened and closed.

John heard as Moran walked to the cabinet again and took things out before he came to stand before John again.

Moran’s grin is cruel as he watched John take in the items he helds: an enema administration kit...

_...And a cattle prod._

“Still want to wish me luck in my efforts?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Linkin Park “By Myself” 
> 
> “Tobias Gregson” is an Arthur Conan Doyle character, who appears in “A Study In Scarlet.” It’s fun to reference some of the original source material from time to time.


	24. Death Is Rolling In Every Verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets worse for John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assume all the trigger warnings.

_Three years previous…_

Pain flashed across John’s body again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

When it finally abated and John presumed another strike was not immediately coming he slowly opened his eyes.  He tried to lift his head from cold concrete floor, but couldn’t, his muscles wouldn’t let him, yet. He was actually grateful for the gag Moran had his goons replace on him; sure that he would have bitten his tongue at some point in that.

He had received the first shock the moment he lunged at the goon he dubbed Frick when the restraints securing his arms to chair were released. They both went down as the shock jumped from him to Frick before the goon could get away. John paid the price for that as he guessed at least one rib had a hairline fracture. Between the current beating from Frick and Moran beating him earlier he was going to be a mass of bruises soon.

_I could be wrong, but I don’t think customers want already damaged goods. Just have to avoid that fucking cattle prod._

Apparently the bastard Moran realized the same thing.

Keeping the prod always within striking range, Moran blindfolded him and lead him through a different door than the one that went to the club. He tried to make a mental map as they walked down a corridor, through a carpeted room and finally to a private bathroom, before the blindfold was removed again. He was ordered to strip. His refusal brought another touch of the prod that convinced him stripping was better than being continually incapacitated.   

All of which the captain promptly forgot when Frack was the one made to bind his wrists to a length of chain that was given just enough length to either sit on the floor of the shower stall or sit on the nearby toilet. It was also just enough length to quickly find its way around Frack’s neck.

Moran had to know shocking John at that point was tantamount to killing his own man. Moran did it anyway. John was too busy writhing in pain to even have the satisfaction of noting when the spinal cord transected as the C1-C3 vertebrae snapped when the shock immediately dropped him to the floor.

Once Frack was pulled away Moran turned on the taps dousing the still incapacitated captain in frigid water. Moran was merciless as he turned off the water and shocked Watson repeatedly, his now wet body more conducive of the shocks being sent through him, until he yielded at last.

Moran said something to Frick and the weight of the goon’s foot, and gun, were pressed hard into his face as his ankles were put into restraints that were then chained to his wrist forcing him to lay on his side in fetal position.

He did not have to wonder what else Moran was doing, as he felt the tube slide between his cheeks and find purchase, the flow of liquid following moments later. His eyes were closed, when Frick backed away, but he knew without looking that Moran and the prod were near. 

John heard the buzz as Moran received a text; opening his eyes, as Moran pulled out his phone.

“Oh, this must be Christmas to receive such a timely present. He’s GOT to join in on this fun!” The man’s grin was disconcertingly giddy yet feral as he read the text and responded before pocketing the phone. Moran passed the cattle prod and syringes to Frick and gave a set of what were definitely orders as they both glanced at John. Frick made a call. Minutes later there were more hired guns and one had brought in another cattle prod.  Two carried Frack out, three stayed with Frick

_Oh look Huey, Dewey and Louie fresh out of the classic school of goon fashion._

The men watched Frack being taken away before slowly looking at John. The one John decided was Louie was staring at him especially hard as John noted the man’s familial resemblance to the dead one. _Okay, THAT one is going to cause me pain._ Moran saw the looks and issued an order that clearly meant _do not kill him_ _or I will kill you_ going by the shift in expressions, at least he prayed that’s what it was.

“Watson, I’ve got to go and handle something personally, but don’t worry, I’ll return with something good just for you. Actually, do worry. It’s more fun for me to watch.” He reached down ruffling John’s hair the way one would a pet. John would have snarled at him and show just how much of a pet he was not were he not gagged, “Be good while I’m out and I _might_ let them use lube before they take you.”

_He’s leaving?! What?! Who could be so important that he would leave off torturing me for?_

Before John could finish the thought Moran was gone and Frick was in his face the cattle prod at the ready.

“If you shit yourself, I will arrange to have a string of my men line up to prod you off and on for twenty-four regardless of how you beg. We can’t kill you, but accidents happen – we’ll risk Sebastian’s anger. Do we understand each other?”  Frick spoke in a heavily accented English, but it was the first John had heard from the man since being aware of his existence. He held the cattle prod much too close for comfort, John could hear its low buzz and flinched away from it instinctively. His body MIGHT be able to take twenty-fours that, depending on how it was spaced out – and that was a serious _depending_ , but he was not willing to chance it, he nodded quickly.

Frick understood.

John sighed in relief sitting nearly doubled over on the toilet, barely making it in time as his body emptied. He had fully expected Louie to exact some form of revenge them, but clearly Frick was to Moran, what Sebastian had been to Jim Moriarty. Louie knew to gainsay Frick was to oppose Moran and it to lead to disastrous results for him. 

John took a deep breath, realizing he had a different problem. He grunted at Frick, rattling the chain of his bound wrists behind him and nodded to the toilet paper out of his reach.

_You either have to release me so I can clean myself or one of you have to come clean me, you bastard._

He ducked his head to his chest because he knew, KNEW, if Frick saw his face right then and there he would be double shocked off the toilet. He was surprise to feel Frick’s hard yanking on his hair, pulling his head back. Frick held a finger up pointing to Louie and then Huey who held with the cattle prods in close range. Dewey’s hand was his gun. He nodded once to Frick understanding the threat. 

Frick hand slid to the bindings of the gag loosening them before quickly stepping back as the gag came off. “I am going to unchain your wrists so you can clean yourself. Moran tells me you are man of your word. Promise you won’t do something stupid for us to hurt you.”

John looked from the triplets to Frick. His voice raspy as he worked his mouth “I promise you I’m going to kill Sebastian Moran. I promise you I will take down any of you who try to stop me. But right now I promise you I just want to wipe my arse, wash my hands and get dressed.”

Frick laughed “You’re stupid, but honest.”

“How do we know he keep word?” Dewey asked Frick.

“Petrushenka.” John answered looking at Frick; the man looked over John’s face.

It was enough.

Always with Louie and Huey holding their prod too close for comfort, with Louie fixated on the scar on his left shoulder for some reason as Frick made him shower. If John somehow figured out they had discussed his anatomy, he gave no indication of it, absolutely refusing to turn his back on them as he dried off. Frick had received a call while he was drying off, one he was apparently expecting as he glanced to John. John was given his back his fatigue trousers and combat boots.

“No pants?”

“You won’t be in them long enough to waste the effort.” Frick’s grin was all kinds of wrong as John wrists were bound behind him again and a walking chain attached to his ankles.

_Ya, just in case you forgot just how much shite you’re in for Watson. At least all bets are off again._

John was frog marched from the bathroom, through what looked very much like a fancy hotel suite, _ah the carpeted room_ , down a corridor and back into the torture room.  Frick passed by the cabinet and John got a quick peek at the gleaming sharps, vial of serums, various restraints.

_An interrogator or torturer’s supply closet - great._

The sudden onslaught of dance music as the other door opened pulled him out hard against the memories trying to seep in as he was pushed forward.

John blinked as they walked through what was a private VIP booth in multi-level club. The music was loud. He made out the DJ’s booth on the opposite side. There were a lot of gyrating bodies on the floor, but it wasn’t packed. Like most clubs, there were no clocks. It could have been early or late, he had no idea and no time to think about it as he was ushered through another door and up a flight of stairs.

A door opened unto a well-appointed salon, not a living room, a salon in the old-fashioned sense of the word. Money was spent here and even he knew it was a lot of it.  There were no windows, but four wood paneled doors each color coded with a bar on the keyless entry door handle plate: green, yellow, red and white. John remembered Moran’s instructions.

_[“Get her cleaned up and take her to the whi… No, take her to the red and prepare her.”]_

_Safewords? The rooms are coded by safewords? What the hell does_ white _mean then?_

Frick did not bother to shield the key panel as he entered the code. The implications of such flashed through John’s mind as the door opened and he sees the white room.  If the first room had an interrogator’s supply closet – this room was a torturer’s wet dream.

Seconds before Frick raised a finger and both cattle prods made contact John glanced over his shoulder and saw Louie’s smile.

He _knew_ they don’t care what Moran said…

_White means I don’t come out of this alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Linkin Park “Bleed It Out”


	25. I Have No Need Of Friendship, Friendship Causes Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds himself looking down the barrel of a gun and blinks recognizing the hand behind it as its owner speaks.
> 
> “Hello Beautiful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The calm before...

_Three years previous…_

Karim was true to his word. Twenty minutes later Sherlock emerged from an employees’ entrance into a hotel lobby and immediately spotted the person he looked for. He had a seat in a club chair, pulled out his mobile and took a couple of pictures. When finished he reread the last received text.

_I’m bored. Here’s where I am – can you guess? Come find me. Let’s have dinner. – IA_

He was sent a photo of the architecture of a hotel lobby. It was one he had visited before and recognized immediately.

The last time he last saw her face to face was when they parted ways in Karachi. She texted him periodically. Sometimes with seasonal greetings; sometimes when she caught mentions of him in the media. Most often it was with guessing games of whatever little corner of Earth she found herself in. The text almost always ended with a dinner invitation. For the most part he ignored her texts.

For the most part.

With John gone, every now and then, he admitted to moments of weakness for a voice other than Mycroft’s that understood him. One that was fun and could actually _think_ ; only then had he reached out. In fact, he had only reached out to her a total of five times in comparison to the now dozens of which she had texted him over the years. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he typed, then his thumb hovered over the _Send_ button.

_You should not do this, Holmes._

When on a case, normally, he would not have responded to the text.

_But you’re not on a case. You’re on a mission…_

Still, the he was surprised by the photo and realized how she was THAT close to him…

 _…A mission going back…_ there…

He gave in.

_I’m bored. Here’s where I am – can you guess? Come find me. – SH_

He in turn had replied with a photo of the back of her head as she sat in said lobby. The same in which he now sat and watched her. He inwardly smirked as he saw the minute telltale flinch of surprise to his response. He waited patiently as she finished her drink and signaled a waiter for her bill. As she waited only then had she stood, casually scanned the faces, the smallest twitch played around her lips. He could tell she fought not to smile when she saw him at last; her fingers tapped  movements casual, yet deliberate as she adjusted her shayla around her. His head dipped only slightly in acknowledgement as he rose and headed to the elevators.  By the time she entered her room fifteen minutes later Sherlock was already inside, dishdasha and keffiyeh draped over the back of a chair.

“You don’t call. You barely write. And just when I had resigned myself to a quiet time alone this evening, here you are bigger than life. You going to be the death of me. You do know how to keep a girl guessing.” The smile she had withheld in the lobby was out in full as she looked him over with a critical eye, flung the shayla to a side table, placed her clutch on top.

“You text geographic picture puzzles, yet I keep you guessing.” Sherlock huffed good-naturedly, “Hello Irene.”

“And how is Mr. Holmes these days?” Irene unzipped the black abaya she wore and revealed an elegant light blue tea length, caplet shouldered dress, which brought out her eyes. She walked over to the couch opposite him removed her nude heels and tucked her feet underneath her once she sat. “I understand the good doctor now renders his services to the British Royal Army again. Dare I surmise what happened?”

“Mr. Holmes, is quite well. It was decided his presence would draw unnecessary attention from the Big Brother society. I understand that he is off on other endeavors. As for the _good doctor_ , it is an old tale now, but if you insist, be my guest.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively as he leaned back in his chair .

Irene smirked at the snipe at Mycroft, but raised an eyebrow at the rest, “Interesting.”

“What is?”

“Were they a couple, I’d say Mr. Holmes and the doctor broke up, but as Dr. Watson was always quite adamant in his heterosexuality – at least publicly, that cannot be the case can it? Care for anything?” Irene rose to go to the minibar, held the door of the mini-fridge open for him to inspect the offerings.

“Club soda, please.”

Irene removed two bottles, handed one to him before she returned to her seat. Sherlock knew she bided time as she studied him. He kept his expression neutral.

“Having been one -a case- so to speak, I know from personal experience, Mr. Holmes sneaking off to a foreign country alone for one is not novel. But those are small days apart; the doctor would never voluntarily be apart but so long from him. And to return to the Royal Army nonetheless? Wasn’t he was invalided out originally? Someone with a minor government position must have had a say in that reversal. Still, he would not do so without implicit permission.” She reached behind her neck to start to unzip her dress as she pondered.

“So Mycroft had permission, no that can’t be right.” She stood and got  the zipper all the way down, then took her arms out and let it slide to the floor. She stood before him in sheer nude stockings and sapphire blue garters, lacy jewel-toned blue knickers with a matched demi-bra. She absentmindedly picked her dress from the floor, casually folded and then tossed it on the couch beside her as she sat again. Sherlock knew, though she spoke to him, though she looks at him, she did not see him as he sat there while she worked it out.

She crossed her leg, elbow on thigh, fist supported head as she thought. Sherlock crossed a leg at the knee, his face held by thumb, forefinger and fist as he watched her.

“Watson left while Mr. Holmes was in the hospital. He loves him madly, even if he himself does not know it. There is no way he could have been forced from Sherlock’s side, especially that soon while comatose. I’ve seen his temperament when it comes to him; he would fight to stay or he would be trying to find the assailants himself and God help them if he had. I can only imagine what he would do to…”

The tiniest frown crossed her face as she unhooked the garter tabs and divested one leg, then the other of their stockings. Sherlock noted minor differences in her body from the first and last time he saw this much of her. Her body was a little more toned in the arms, the interesting little tattoo inside her left thigh was new. _Why does that look familiar?_ Her toenails were painted in the same vivid red of her fingers, which of course matched her lips, now pursed as she reached up to start removing hairpins.

He saw on her face, the moment it all coalesced.

“So, it wasn’t an escaped criminal that assaulted you. It was _Watson_?!” The stunned whisper drops from her lips, causing her to slip as she saw Sherlock again at last. “What happened?”

Other than a small one-shouldered shrug, Sherlock had not moved, nor had he answered, his face gave nothing away as he sipped the club soda.

She sat there in her barely-there lingerie, her hair loosed and curled about her shoulders, her eyes haunted with the realization of his attack, even Sherlock had admitted to himself she was indeed beautiful. He watched as she rose from the couch and came to him, moved his crossed leg over to stand between his knees.

“You have rarely replied to my texts before today. And only five times have you reached out to me unbidden. Twice to text “Happy New Year”. Once to text that you saw me in Madrid while you were on a case - though I had not seen you. Once to let me know about the tensile strength a riding crop you bought that you thought I’d like and the last time was a couple of months after your release from the hospital where you just texted “Hello.” I was on a plane to China. When I finally saw it and responded, you were silent again.”

Her voice was soft, as she lowered herself to the floor before him, “What happened, Sherlock?”

She wrapped her hands around the hand resting on his thigh. “The one time… The ONE time you wanted me, you needed ME, I was not there. I am so sorry, Sherlock.”

_I cannot._

As if she read his thought, she squeezed his hand a gently. “I am here now.”

She turned to rest against his leg, her back to the chair, placed her head against his knee as she slowly stroked his leg through the trousers gently. They sat that way in companionable silence, lost in their respective thoughts.

_She’s a dominatrix, yet will yield to me. It is not mere payment for saving her life. She offers me this gift, this balm, I just need but ask._

_But do I want to?_

He had not seen as she smiled gently with relief when he allowed himself small comfort as he absently ran his hand through her hair.

After a long while Irene stood, pulled him up with her. She placed her hands at his waist and ever so slowly ran them up his torso until she reached his shoulders where she slid his jacket down his arms and let it drop in the chair. He had not stopped her as she unbuttoned his shirt cuffs. He had smiled briefly in memory as she placed her left hand on top of his right hand, then curled her fingers around under it and took his pulse once the wrist is free of the shirt. She telegraphed her aim for the uppermost closed button of his shirt; he didn’t stop her as she opened them on by one, pulled the front hem out of his trousers to do so. Though he wears a vest, when she ran her hands around his torso and untucked the shirt from the back he took her hands and held them away. He looked away with a small sad shake of his head. Irene reached up and turned his face back to hers by the chin, searched his mercurial eyes that betrayed nothing to her. He in turn searched hers that told him everything. She cupped his face with her right hand as her left traveled to rest on his waist again.

She unerringly found a scar through the material, ran a finger along it gently and waited.

Since his return from Serbia the only persons to have seen his body uncovered were medical staff, Janine and his mother, who accidentally walked in during a sponge bath while he was still comatose and saw his torso. After he’d come home, Mycroft had told Sherlock how distraught she had been from the sight of it. Enough so that she has contacted her elder child for information. Mycroft himself had only seen his back once since his return from Serbia. It was nearly a quarter year after his return to London, and only because he actually asked to see. Sherlock knew his brother had had trouble reconciling the once beautifully smooth back remembered from Buckingham Palace with the scarred mass before him. After all, Mycroft had there when some of the very last of the scars were created. Mycroft’s sharp intake of breath at the sight of it floated before Sherlock in memory as Irene touched the same scar his brother could not help but touch that day. A few weeks after his return in John’s life the doctor had asked about it as well. He was a doctor and had guessed some of what had happened from the way Sherlock had carried himself, but Sherlock had denied him. The wounds, mentally and physically, were still too fresh for Sherlock and by then John was engaged to Mary. He had not wanted to spoil John’s happiness with the burden of his actions, even if they had been for John’s benefit. After a while, there was no point.

Sherlock knew what Irene wanted. He did not think if he could let her have it. To let her have something he has not even shown to John.

_Oh, but there is no John to care anymore is there Sherlock?_

_If not him, why not her?_

He cupped his hands over hers and with only a moments pause, he guided both of her hands to encircle his waist and then let go with a single nod. He watched her face as she untucked his vest from the back of his trousers and placed a hand directly on his back. It took nearly everything he had to fight the instinct to stop her as he gritted his teeth at the contact. Her index finger found one of the worst of the scars that cross his back and followed it, her eyes gone momentarily wide as the other hand joined in the exploration. Her eyes took on a near clinical detachment as her fingers traversed the scars on his back; some are fine lines, others crossed over each other in almost bas relief. When done she simply wrapped her arms around him completely, pressed her head against his chest and held tight, her hands splayed against his back.

The matronly warmth of hugs from Mummy or Mrs. Hudson did not apply here. The last person to hold him like this was Molly, in farewell on the day of his supposed death, before he disappeared into the underworld to dismantle Moriarty’s criminal web. Yet even that was over the layers of his suit and his Belstaff coat. She never knew what his back looked like before, let alone now.  Even with Janine, he was always, _always_ , cognizant of where her hands were at all times. Perceptive in her own way, in the brief time of their fake romance, she understood unless he was fully dressed, not to touch his back. So yes, it somehow seemed right that Irene, _The Woman_ , be the one female to touch directly him so. 

A slight tremor trickled up Sherlock's spine under Irene’s unexpectedly tender touch, this silent acceptance of him; literal scars and all. He had held his arms out as she studied him, but as hers had gone around him and held tight, his arms automatically found their way around her lissome form, rested his chin lightly on her head. Arms still wrapped around him she pulled at him gently, tried to move him as she stepped back. He resisted the pull and waited. When she let go and looked at up at him, he yielded. He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom, laid her gently on the covers.

Irene raised a quizzical brow, but said nothing as she understood what he is capable of accepting. She understood that as much as he denied the need for such, he is human after all. Not even he cannot always resist the very human desire that sometimes needed the simple comfort to touch and be touched by another in return. He slipped off his shoes, climbed onto the bed and pulled Irene in. She curled herself into him, her head under his, her back to his front, Sherlock’s long limbs engulfed hers as they spooned. 

If, for a moment, he wished it were a different body he held against him, it is a very brief moment as he pulled her closer. If she felt as he trembled slightly, she had the grace not to acknowledge it.

“Thank you.” Sherlock whispered the first words between them in over an hour.

He heard the smile in her sleep filled whisper of a voice as he himself drifted off at last.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

<>==========<>

“I know you are going to go back to ignoring me once you walk out that door. Let’s have breakfast.”  Irene teased putting on a pair of earrings, as she sat at the sofa, already knew what his answer will be.

“It does not work for dinner, what makes you think it will work for breakfast? I’ll continue to be that bad penny; never knowing where I’ll turn up. The better to keep you on your toes.” Sherlock snorted, as he knew she already knew his answer.

He frowned at his trousers as he put on his jacket. They were wrinkled from sleeping in them, but the dishdasha would cover that until he could change.

“But right I soon have a plane to catch and I need to get back to …” He stopped, turned, squinted at the balcony and he drew his gun.

“What?” Irene was quickly alerted by his action as she reached for her clutch and the gun within.

Simultaneously the doors to the suite and the balcony were burst open and several canisters were tossed in, immediately followed by armed men, who wore gas masks.  Sherlock got three shots off, that took down two and wounded another. He heard Irene scream just as the barrel of a rifle poked the back of his head.

He lowered the gun and fell to the floor, his arm twisted under his body as he let the gas take him.

<>==========<>

The ache in Sherlock’s shoulders wake him. Before his eye fully opened he knew.

 _Wrist secured behind me, ankles secured to each other. Oh great, I’ve been kidnapped._ Again _. Mycroft’s going to fucking kill me._

Sherlock slowly lifted his head to see two men with guns trained on him. He knew from the suits they were a part of the team that attacked the hotel room.

_Henchmen, well-dressed henchmen, but henchmen nonetheless. So cliché. Straight out of one of John’s stupid spy movies. It’s deplorable. It’s only him in front of me that I need concern myself with._

Sherlock found himself looking down the barrel of a gun and blinked as he recognized the hand behind it as its owner speaks.

“Hello Beautiful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Paul Simon – “I Am A Rock”


	26. Some People Live Just To Play The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A face from Sherlock's past appears and makes an offer he can't refuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize - Life gets in the way sometimes; it's been a busy last few days. I can't believe a full week has passed.

_Three years previous…_

Sherlock ignored the Sig P229 pointed at him, he glances around the room once more. The curtains were drawn against the light. Everything about the hotel room looked the same, except…

He breathed deep through his nose.

_I am NOT in the hotel._

His eyes settled idly on his captor again.  The body build was an good match and the reconstructive surgery was a well done job, but that face had played a most deadly game and taken over a part of his life. Sherlock Holmes knew the face of one James Moriarty’s quite well.

_It’s an outstanding facsimile, but no. This is not it._

“Where is Irene?” He asked instead.

“Oh, you are a cool customer and a gentleman. You look me in my face and not bat an eye, have a gun pointed at you, yet you asked about The Woman first. Funny, she said you would.” 

Sherlock quirked a brow at that.

The man’s voice was close to Jim’s, definitely Irish, yet not quite correct.

_Moriarty almost never held a gun on me. He never really had to._

“I laid a couple of traps for you. Yet you respond to one I never would have thought to set. She is good isn’t she?” The doppelganger continued. Sherlock rolled his eyes, his doubt of the man’s ability to set a simple mouse trap evident.

_Really is that the best you can do? Then you’re not worthy of his mantle._

Sherlock realized his shirt was still open and buttoned it.

_How well did they copy everything?_

“Is my suit jacket still in the salon?”

“Your jacket?” His captor seemed a little confused.

_Definitely, not Moriarty._

“I’ve been knocked out via gas, drugged for who knows how long going by the prick sensation in my arm. Transported from one room to another that looks just like it -down to placing my shoes almost exactly in the way I left them in the previous location- all in some misplaced effort to confuse me. If you know who I am, then you should know such subterfuge would not work.” Sherlock hit the k hard at the end before he continued, “You have also insinuated that the woman I slept with has betrayed me. What else is there?”  Sherlock leaned back on his elbows as his words went into rapid fire. “If you wanted the woman and not me, you’d have killed me already. So it’s me you want. That you have not answered my question regarding her well-being I presume she is alive, otherwise you’d have her body where I can see it to understand the severity of your threat to me. If she has in fact betrayed me, you’ve removed her usefulness as a threat against me at some future point, so she is alive, thus my query of her. That I am still alive tells me that you want show something to me. If you merely wanted something from me, transport was not necessary, you have something for me to see, which I presume is located elsewhere from this facsimile, thus the inquiry of my jacket. So with the annoyance of repetition, what else is there?”

And now his captor sat completely awed.

_Oh, you have the looks, but certainly not the perspicacity. Idiot._

"And if you ever put your hands on me ever again. I will kill you." Sherlock snarled as the memory of the man's hands on his person while he slowly awakened from his coma surface.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment before his captor used the gun to indicate Sherlock should walk to the bedroom door, something with his captor’s wrist caught Sherlock’s eye as he waved the gun.

He walked into the living room area, not surprised to see the curtains to the balcony completely drawn or to see a man whose face is real and is one he does know.

“You were both right, boss. He’s one cool customer. Did not bat an eye at me and asked about her first.” The Moriarty doppelganger entered the living room behind him, holstered his gun and took a seat. The other two gun men entered and stood on either side of Sherlock. He ignored them and spoke to the man he knew.

“Hello Sebastian. Wondered if we’d ever cross paths again after Munich.” He acknowledged the man in fatigues and a black t-shirt who sat calmly in a side chair.

On the coffee table, in the water of a tall vase, parts of two mobiles floated, as other pieces sank. His partially burnt laptop was also on the table. He smirked at the scorch marks on the wood.

Irene sat huddled in a corner of the sofa. She tried not to, but trembled nonetheless, her eyes were dry , but red rimmed from having cried. Eyes that showed immense relief at the sight of him. Her face was red on one side, she had been hit.

A different henchman had a gun on her with one hand; his other hand wrapped in a bandage.

“Had fun attempting to open the laptop? I learnt it from her.”

The man glared at Sherlock then Irene. “She said as she laughed when it blew up in my hand.”

“Ah, that is why you hit her.” Sherlock's eyes slid to the reddened cheek before he locked eyes with her at last.

“Sherlock. I’m sorry.” Guilt and apology poured off of her in waves.

_If you’ve betrayed me, woman, I will make you WISH I let you die in Karachi._

For not having heard the verbiage, he knew by her slight flinch she had felt his intent.

“Actually, I hit her for laughing and not warning me it was a possibility.” Sebastian spoke, “It would have been worse had it been in my hand or Jim’s when it blew.”

“I am NOT calling that Frankenstein creation Jim, even if it is his given name.” Sherlock snorted, before turning back to Irene.

“Your tattoo. When did Moran pick you up?”

“How...?” Irene’s eyes went wide in surprise. She saw the ice in Sherlock’s eyes and turned her head in shame as tears formed. She shook her head, it is Sherlock after all, before she answered.

“Not Moran, Moriarty. A few months after Karachi. A mutual client was in deep serious trouble with Moriarty. Drugged me and sent me gift wrapped as a present. I was kept under for so long; by the time I came to I already marked.”

“That was an accident. Jim had just taken over a cartel in Asia. It was a process done automatically under the previous owners. When Jim took over the operation they assumed he wanted the same. Neither of us were there when she was delivered to stop it.” Sebastian walked around Sherlock and stood by the sofa. “I’m surprised she kept it.”

“Why didn’t you come to me?”  Sherlock glared at Irene.

“It was too soon after Karachi. I couldn’t... I kept the tattoo to remind myself to not be that stupid again.” She shook her head.

 _Ah, too ashamed to ask._ “And what exactly what do you do for him? And how often?”

“When Moriarty wanted to take someone down softly and yet have them available for use, if they have a liking for my type of misbehaving…”  Irene grimaced as she flicked her eyes at Sebastian. “I’m free to misbehave at my own leisure otherwise. Jim had only asked once before he died. Sebastian has never asked.”

“It works in my favor that she’s a free spirit on contract.” Sebastian pointed at Sherlock and then to a chair. “But I haven’t had anyone important enough to use her skillset, yet.”

“Where are we?” Sherlock took the indicated seat, the henchmen moved in sync to keep him covered. Irene looked around confused. “As I’ve told CC in nauseating detail over there, I know we are not in the hotel.”

“Cee Cee?” Sebastian frowned.

“Carbon Copy.” Irene smirked as she glanced at the fake Moriarty.

Sebastian merely nodded and walked to the balcony, pulled open the curtains to reveal not doors to the outside, but a light wall. Irene gasped. “Designed to simulate the hours of day. It usually takes people a couple of days to notice. If they are here long enough to notice. How did you know?”

“The light is wrong for natural light and even with air conditioning, the air itself is different. You can’t ever truly replicate that.” Sherlock idly shrugged, “Now that we’ve established that. Where are we and what do you want?”

“Now I remember why Moriarty was in love with you.”  Sebastian holstered his gun, smirked at him.

Sherlock blinked. _In love? With me? Surely you jest._

“Love is a defect found on the losing side, and he lost by his own hand.” He rolled his eyes.

“That he did.” Sebastian conceded, then answered the questions, “Not at the hotel and back in London.”

“London?” Irene and Sherlock questioned in unison.

“Short story. I am coming home to London. I don’t have the acuity to hold down a massive empire as Jim, but I know I can handle London and what I’ve made here. I simply have a problem and you Sherlock Holmes are going to help me solve it.” Sebastian stated matter-of-fact as he walked over to the sofa and sat at the opposite end from Irene.

“Am I now?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly, just as matter-of-fact.

“Yes, you will.” Sebastian stated confidentially as he reached down and pulled up the bag that had held Sherlock’s laptop.

“What? It’s a nicer bag than mine and you don’t need it anymore.” He smirked as he saw Sherlock’s scowl, then issued commands in Serbian to the henchmen that held guns on Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked.

_How long was I out?!_

One henchman placed a gun muzzle against Sherlock’s head as the other cleared the destroyed electronics from the coffee table. Sebastian made a phone call, spoke more Serbian, but even in Serbian, which Sherlock understood some, he spoke in code words to whomever is on the other side. Sherlock could not get the proper context.

_There’s only one way to find out, Holmes._

“Are we in Serbia?” He asked Irene.

“I honestly don’t know. I came to in here. I didn’t know this was not the same room until you pointed it out. I am hungry, but I have no idea of the true time.” Irene shook her head. He knew she told the truth.

Sherlock arched a brow at Sebastian who simply grinned.

_And there we go._

When both henchmen were back to Sherlock, Sebastian spoke to someone on the mobile and placed his laptop on the table, then turned it for Sherlock to see.

A camera pointed to a pair of women’s legs in front of a chair. Sherlock saw at some point the ankles were bound, but not for a while.  He could tell she’s sedated as the camera rose along the shins to her knees. He frowned as a slow recognition dawned.

_No. It can’t be!_

A man’s hand reached out, pushed her dress up and parted her legs, which gave him a flash of her blond pubis before it focused on a scarred inner left thigh. It’s a small thin scar.

Whoever had done the stitching had a fine hand.

_Oh. No. No._

A long time ago, during a case, Sherlock had slashed open the back of his hand in a nasty fall. He had refused to go to a hospital, so of course the good doctor had stitched him up. Sherlock glances at a fine stitching on the back of his hand and knew.

_John. That’s John’s work. They’ve seen each other._

His mind rapidly calculated the age of the scar against the last time he saw Mary in his brother’s office. _Mycroft hadn’t told me that. Neither had she._ A raw naked envy he never expected to feel nearly choked him.

 _Damn you Holmes, not now! Focus!_ He chastised himself even as he peripherally spied Irene’s quirked brow at whatever flashed across his face as he refocused on the screen in front of him.

Fine as it is, the scar all but obliterated the tattoo that is barely seen now. Sherlock might have not have recognized it for what it was at all had he not just seen ones that matched it on Irene left thigh as property on Fauxriarty and  Sebastian’s left wrist as owner, fresh in his memory. He knew when he saw Irene’s he had seen it before, now he knew exactly where.

_But why is she letting him touch her? Film her?_

He watched the rest of the video as the camera quickly climbed her torso.

She sat stiffly a rope held her to keep from falling out of the chair, but not securing ti it.

_Sebastian knows who she is – what she is. He would not be this careless unless..._

Finally the camera pans to her face. He stares hard at her unmoving face, her still eyes.

_Unless he's given her a paralytic..._

“You have Petrushenka.” Sherlock lifts his gaze to Sebastian, who speaks into the phone and the video cuts off.

“As I said Sherlock: Yes, you will.”

Sherlock glances at the now empty screen.

He made it to Serbia after all.

“Yes, I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Alicia Keys "If I Ain't Got You".
> 
> Almost at the turning point of this Act. It's about to get ugly in here.


	27. Confusing What Is Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's about to get ugly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW Knives and blood.

_Three years previous…_

**_“I’m going to need you to put that down.” John walks into the sitting room, letting his work bag drop to the floor as he comes to stand in front of Sherlock who at the kitchen table, a lit oxy acetylene torch in hand, in the midst of heaven only knows what experiment. “There’s something I need to do and I don’t think you’re going to want that in your hands when I do.”_ **

**_“What are you going on about?” Sherlock sees John face and carefully turns off the torch, placing it on the table._ **

**_“Just something I’ve been meaning to do for a while now.” John smirks._ **

**_“And that is what?” Sherlock’s raises a curious brow._ **

**_“This.” John reaches out, grateful the man I sitting to even out the height difference and kisses him._ **

**_It’s a light kiss, but one that cannot be mistaken for chaste as one hand cups Sherlock’s face holding him there._ **

**_“Oh…” Sherlock gasps against John’s lips, leaning into John’s touch. He moves a hand to the back of the blonde’s neck, guiding him closer. Sherlock’s lips are surprisingly soft and gentle, and John’s are hot and firm in response._ **

**_“About damned time, Watson.” Sherlock turns his body to face his flatmate_ **

**_It’s maddening how easily he takes to kissing Sherlock after so long. If John were to stop and try to rationalize this, he’d be lost. As lost as his fingers are in Sherlock’s inky curls._ **

**_“Bedroom.” Sherlock orders, near breathless, not so gently guiding John back as the doctor starts unbuttoning the consulting detective’s shirt. Looming over him, his long fingers makes quick work on the last of John’s shirt buttons as his back hits the bedroom door._ **

**_When Sherlock’s trousers are somewhere on the floor, John seizes him by the shoulders and moves him down onto the bed. Sherlock was an impressive figure when he’d been stood over John, and he’s no less impressive on his back – his thighs part readily and John slips between them all too easily._ **

**_Sherlock’s fingers slide across the curve of John’s spine and trace downwards. His breath catches as the sharp edge of a broken nail slides against his skin._ **

“Ow…”

**_Sherlock’s fingers firmly dig into skin._ **

“Ow!”

**_John hisses as he feels the sharp nicks again and again, all over._ **

John eyes pop as the sting of his sweat slides in all of the nicks and groaned as reality reasserted itself into the room.

“Oh _fuck_!”

John shook his head wildly trying to dispel the sweat from his head and Sherlock’s image from his mind.

_Not here, for God’s sake. Not here!_

He knew how this works, how the mind plays tricks to survive. The memory of Sherlock’s voice should be a comfort to him. As most thoughts of him had in the past couple of years, but John did not want to find that comfort here. If, no not if, when he makes it out of here the LAST thing he wanted was to have that beautiful baritone associated with this place forever ruining his memory.

They had left the lights on. His eyes trailed what he could see of the white room again. It was a room of plain white walls and far too many restraint points on three walls. The fourth had nothing but a single decorative rectangular of molding before him. At one point he had wondered if it were merely decorative or if it served a purpose or something, then one of his tormentors entered and pushed the thought away.

It was warm in the room with the blinding lights on. Sweat trickled across every nick, cut, scratch and scar on him making them all sting like hell. Intrinsically he knew most of the cuts surface ones would heal cleanly, even some of the ones that drew blood. But there were several on his forearm and chest he knew where likely to be permanent scars. His back? He did not want to think about that. He could feel the slow trickle of blood mixing with sweat make it way down into the waist of his fatigues. It was the same with his arms. Blood and sweat finding the path of least resistance past the leather cushioning of the restraints down to his fingers. He flicked them, hearing drops hit the plastic behind him.

He looked at the slowly accumulating drops, the mini rivulets that he could see on the plastic beneath his feet.

_Sheets of plastic._

His body shook with morbid laughter.

_Christ! Really? American telly is what pops into your fucked up mind now, doctor?_

He could not help but laugh at himself, the bitter sound hollow in the empty room as the lights went out.

_And here we go again…_

John had no idea he had hung from the winched chains. Currently his wrists were secured behind him in such a way that he could stand with his feet flat on the floor which pulled considerably at his wrists and shoulders or stand on his tiptoes, which took some of the pressure off his joints, but not all. Still, how long can anyone outside of a ballet dancer stay on their tiptoes?

His last tormentor, for there had been three distinct ones that John could place and they rotated, had left while the lights were out, but he also knew the near blinding white lights could still turn on again any second regardless if someone entered. Even eyes closed was no protection as the sudden brightness from behind his eyelid was still disorienting.  He really did not know which was worse any more: light or darkness.

Being in the near pitch black: his only clues to an attack were footsteps, someone breathing or the slicing of the air before or either a riding crop or a flogger made contact. When the lights come on he can see his attackers and he can see the increasing flecks of blood on the plastic at his feet, knowing it was his as the blade came forward to nick him.

Some were courtesy of Louie who always attacked him lights on, but most were from the other bastard who seemed to like working in the dark as John had yet to see his face. 

He suppose he should count the small blessing that particular sadist enjoys hearing his victims make noise. The gag was removed because John wasn’t making the appropriate hissing noises as he made the nicks dripping blood and sweat down John’s arm. John was not sure if death by a thousand nicks was really a thing, but it seems like Louie and the other bastard have a definite interest in finding out.

Between the initial being knocked out from the helicopter attack, the enema and lack of food throwing off his other biological clues, falling in and out of exhausted sleep and the lights on – lights off for extended periods of time regardless of if anyone was in the room. He sometimes would come awake chained differently from what he remembered last. John truly had no sense of time anymore and wondered if he was officially listed as MIA or already considered dead. He did not have to wonder who would honestly care if he died. That list was pathetically small.

His sister Harriet certainly would. Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper. Donnery if he’s not on a mission, Murray definitely. He even suspected Dimmock, Donovan and Anderson would at least make an appearance at the service. Mycroft most assuredly would not care, but…

_Sherlock_

Were this two years ago, John would have known without any doubt Sherlock Holmes would be at his grave. Now? Maybe out of the respect for what once was. Who knows?

_Maybe, I should have stayed. I am so sorry, Sherlock. I’d give anything to see your face at least once more even if it’s to tell me goo..._

_What was that?_

Lost in his maudlin pondering he almost did not hear the door open.  He hear three sets of footwear enter the room before the door closed again.

The surprise of the break in the silence is followed by his chains rattle and John’s immediate hiss of pain from the muscles being pull as his feet hit floor fully.

They were not bumping into him, or any wall, yet it sounded as though they were moving something.

_Shite, night goggles, of course!_

And just as quietly as they enter - all footsteps leave.

Someone else entered the room what felt like hours later. He knew who it was by the footsteps; it was the bastard who liked to cut him in the dark. You don’t spend years with the likes of Sherlock Holmes and not pick up a trick or two.

Listening to movement often gave him some warning. He could occasionally duck out of the full force of a punch or cut, if he heard it coming in time, but the bastard was being unusually quiet now, John could barely hear him breathe.

_He’s trying to hide his presence from me? Why?_

“Hello John.”

_Jesus Christ!_

The plastic crinkled as a familiar velvet smooth voice stepped towards him. It was his sole warning before a deeper than usual slash went across his upper left biceps branchii and the room went silent.

“Remember me?” That velvet voice breaks the silence again.

_No!_

“Payback, as they say, IS a bitch.”

Plastic crunches and the biceps branchii was slashed again. These are not the tiny cuts of before. John felt the blade slice a little into muscle. A series of slices come down his arms on both sides, each proceeded by the one second warning of a step on plastic.

John lets loose a string of curses in lieu of screaming, but he would not beg for a mercy he did not feel he deserved.  The slashes cause him to stand flat wrenching his shoulders.

_If this is what he needs to do…_

Before today breathing was the only sound the man had made when in the room. No speeches, no threats, like the others. Just enter in the cover of darkness, inflict damage and leave.

_Is this why he never spoke before?_

John hears that breathing now as what had to be the night vision googles hit the floor just before the lights came on again. The light is blinding as always at first. He immediately hung his head down giving himself time to adjust. This was another first for the bastard who had never shown his face before. John barely had time to flinch from the plastic warning when his head was snatched up cruelly to face the panel. His eyes fly open in surprise.

Then widen in utter shock.

The decorative rectangular molding covered what had to be a two-way mirror, but for now he could only see himself and his torturer, whose head was down. John took in the riot of dark curls.

_No._

The slim body and pale complexion.

_No._

The long fingers and hand still in mid-air holding the remote.

_No._

“This is a turn-up, isn’t it, John?” a rich baritone crooned.

John’s mind immediately flashed back to SemTex vests and Jim Moriarty at the pool. John's breath coming up short as the words the mad man had dictated him to say to Sherlock, were now being said to him.

_Oh God no._

_“Sherlock?!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Linkin Park “Crawling”
> 
> For those who may not have understood the "Sheets of plastic": It comes from "Dexter" an American television crime drama mystery about a forensic technician specializing in blood spatter pattern analysis, who leads a secret parallel life as a vigilante serial killer, hunting down murderers who have slipped through the cracks of the justice system. When he kills he wears gloves and uses plastic-wrapped kill rooms for easy clean up. Apparently John is not the only one who watches American telly - Sebastian Moran got the idea for the White Room from somewhere. 
> 
> In a classic scene when Dexter is challenged he thinks the line that became something of a catchphrase for a while.  
> [Do I see sheets of plastic in your future? ](https://youtu.be/nySd9DajohU)


	28. I'll Face Myself To Cross Out What I've Become

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It felt good.  
> John knew what was happening to him, he _knew_.  
>  It did not help.  
> It felt good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can blame/thank RaiLocked for not having to wait until Monday for this chapter.

_Three years previous…_

_No. It can’t be._

John whimpered desperately to the universe, tears began to well as his mind raced madly, tried to understand what was unfathomable in his heart. 

Only the bastard’s painfully tight grip of his hair kept John from crying out at the initial shock of it. The dark curls tickled his arm as the bastard slowly lifted his head. John’s breath slowly calmed as he saw the cheekbones and ears were not quite right. Nor the lips, no, those were not the lips he kissed in his dreams not too long ago. Most of all no one, but God Himself could replicate the mercurial blue-green heterochromia oasis, with that one brown spot, of the eyes John knows so well.

“Wha… what…the fuck… are… you?” John gasped hoarsely, his head lolled against his arm. Those were the first legible words other than curses or screams to come from him since he first awakened in the white room. The shock of the vision in front of him knocked every other thought out.

John laid his memory of the man he knows over this freak show and verified all the things that were wrong. 

 _It’s not him… It’s not him... It’s not him..._ is a relieved mantra that flowed through John in the certainty of it.

This _thing_ would fool most of the world, but never those who know the man well, and certainly not John Watson.  Still, the reflected horror that stood next to him, smirked back at him, was disconcerting enough to say the least. He was even dressed similarly, dark gray bespoke trousers and the top two buttons open of a midnight blue shirt that contrasted well against the pale complexion of the exposed collar bone and long neck.

_Oh God, they even somehow replicated the mole on his neck!_

“Forgotten me already, have you John?” The Not-Sherlock’s rich baritone was disgustingly on point and John cringed to hear it come from him.

“You’re NOT him. Stop it. Just… stop it!” John snarled, snatched his head from the man’s grasp and drew an amused throaty chuckle in its wake. John whimpered as memory collided with reality.

_Oh God damn._

“You sure you want me to?” Not-Sherlock’s voice was velvet as he stepped even closer to John and drew a slow hand down his back that ghosted over wounds and watched John’s face. His fingers continued to elicit pain and pleasure.  John hisses slowly became rapid intakes of breath as he allowed his body to relax into the touch.

It felt good.

John knew what was happening to him, he _knew_.

It did not help.

It felt good.

The gentle strokes trailed to the front of him and continued their administrations. The last person to touch him like that was Mary.

It felt good.

He tried to tell his brain that it’s just endorphins – a chemical reaction to stimulus. It didn’t help. His body did not care as it instinctively arched into it.

It felt good.

All the while a velvet baritone tempted and tortured his psyche with breathy words and innuendo.

John expected it and was mentally prepared as a finger slid across his always sensitive nipple. He was NOT ready when the touch was immediately followed by not-quite-cupid-bow lips' and one a quick tongue flick. It felt good and the first honest moan escaped his control. 

“Oh like that do you?”

“Shut the fuck up!” John hissed as another lick flicked across his nipple again.

The taste of copper touched his tongue and the ensuing pain told him he had bit the inside of his cheek hard to not moan again.

It was exactly what he needed to focus.

A trickle of sweat or blood or both irritated as it went down his leg. He used his opposite foot to scratch at it when Watson realized exactly what he had done.

 _Oh, someone was going to PAY for that_.

When Not-Sherlock next licked him, Watson let his body do what it wanted and moaned, choked back just enough of it to show he still fought it as he thought about his options.

_Let’s play it your way for now…_

Encouraged by Watson’s slow submission, Not-Sherlock became more aggressive and used his mouth and hands more. Watson understood the mechanics of pain and pleasure receptors, but never with his own body before. Not like this. His moans were becoming less forced. Watson felt himself getting hard, more important he knew Not-Sherlock felt it as the bastard kissed and licked his way back across Watson’s torso.  He could not lie to himself: the reflection of himself restrained as he yielded to Not-Sherlock was as appalling as it was erotic.

Watson knew exactly what Not-Sherlock saw as he stood and looked down on him again. Eyes dilated, lips parted, breath short. He turned his head away and tried to hide it.

_After all that is what John would do._

“No, John. Let me see. Let me see you fall apart.” Not-Sherlock leaned in his breath tickled Watson’s ear, as long fingers reach up to hold his head in place. “Open your eyes, John.”

Watson shook his head in negative even as his body arched into the man in front of him. 

“Really John? No?” Not-Sherlock brought his lips closer to the ear, his tongue flicked out. The captain’s body vibrated with the feel of it. Damn, if nothing else was right - the voice was perfect, and behind closed eyes John could pretend for a moment. He could lose himself in the thought of it being real.

"Sherlock" sighed John, a full on breathy whine escaped.

 _No!_ ordered Watson cut it short.

Not-Sherlock continued to kiss him, hands trailed slowly down his body. John's breath stuttered when hands reached the buttons of his fatigues and slid over the engorged cock behind them. Watson feigned pulling away, but really where could he go, chained as he was? And his captor knew it. Watson's pulling away had done nothing but make it easier for Not-Sherlock to pop the top button open. A warm hand slipped inside and grasped his hardness.

“You know you want this.”

The voice had dropped a register. There was no way to suppress it as John moaned low. His fatigues were opened, pulled low to his hips as the bastard lowered himself and then his lips.

_Watson fight it!_

It was a damned fine line as he gave his body just enough to keep going, yet not completely lose himself to Not-Sherlock’s admittedly wonderful administration. He bit his lip hard to counteract the feel of the tongue that swirled around the tip of him. His head thrown back in the strain to not come evident, as he tightly grasped the chains in his hands.

His arms restrained above him, his fatigues hung low about his hips, his torso crisscrossed with cuts and scars, with his enemy on his knees -an enemy that looked like an avatar of his love-  as he performed world-class fellatio. John's debauched reflection was both boon and bane as he realized the extent of Not-Sherlock’s endgame. Because he knew it would be his, were the roles reversed. Knowing this he brought his head forward to face the mirror as he came at last.

Not-Sherlock released his cock, moving out of the way as Watson’s semen started spurting. He clicked the remote and Watson found himself looking into the widening eyes of Rosamund Petrushenka.

Someday Watson will look back on this and wonder at the insane amount of fortitude it must have taken him, but for now…

Captain Watson MOVED.

When Watson's leg itched, he had instinctively used his opposite foot to scratch. For the first time since he entered the room he was able to do so. Someone had forgotten to reconnect his leg chains to the floor. Not-Sherlock  grinned at Mary’s unmoving body, but stunned eyes at his handiwork. By the time he heard the chains move and thought to look at his captive again, the captain had leaped sideways, crisscrossed his legs and let gravity do most of the work as he twisted and swung down. Whoever forgot to chain him down left him more than enough chain to circle the impostor’s neck.

Watson was tired, weakened. Only pure adrenaline kept his body twisted until Not-Sherlock was not-anyone anymore. He hung there and gasped for breath as he maneuvered to untangle the chain and stood again. He looked up at the restraints that still secured his wrists. They were suspended on a chain from a motor that was hooked to cross bar which ran the length of the room. The only way he to get down from them was to go up. He had to first pull himself up by his hands to give him some slack then flip up and wrap at least one leg around the chain to take the weight off his wrists so he could use his teeth to pull the buckles loose.

It took five tries.

In the end it was more he fell than dropped down to the floor. Every muscle in his body a trembling mass when he landed, but he did it. 

_[“Yeah, but what if you’re captured and strung up and your hands are damaged so can’t pull yourself up so the only way to get free is to hang upside down long enough to get out of your bindings, huh?”]_

John had once come across his bunk mate Captain Ronnel Alfred as he climbed the flag pole upside down. The man speed timed himself and eventually John, who had initially mocked the fellow captain's "monkeying around", came around for personal challenge of it and joined in.

_I guess I owe one you big-time, Ronnel._

He couldn’t help it as an insane giddiness took over and found himself giggling madly as he pulled up his fatigues at last and stood. He made himself go over to the dead man to rifle through his pockets, finding nothing, before he went to the table and cabinet by the door.

_Oh Perfect._

Only after he took what he could easily carry had he thought about the woman on the other side of the two-way mirror. 

He turned to face the agent at last.

She was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Linkin Park “What I’ve Done”.


	29. The Distance In Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had come to associate it with being free…  
> …being happy…  
> …being with John.  
>  _It can't become a part of this._

_Three years previous…_

As soon as they were past the doors of the holding cell that John was in Niko and Alexei iron gripped Mary‘s arms. She had about five seconds of struggle in her, managing to jerk away from the needle before they gripped her tighter and administered the shot. Neither let go until they felt her body relax. One went back to get the little girl as Alexei carried her to another section of the building. She could not move her body at all, but she sent praises that her brain was still working.  She tried to remember the path they carried her as they went up two flights of stairs and through a different area of the building she had not seen before. 

Someone punched a code in a door and she was brought in to a simple living room, where she was deposited on a sofa and immediately keeled over to her side. There were other women there who had all ran to stand by a wall when they entered. Niko pushed the little girl forward who happily ran to the presumed safety of the older women. Niko then orders two to follow them as Mary was then picked-up and carried to a bathroom.

Under the watchful eyes of Alexei and Niko, she was stripped. Alexei lowered her into a tub that was just long short enough that could not slip under when they pushed her legs flat. With an evil grin Alex closed her eyes, laughing knowing she could not open them again. Mary suffered in blind silence as she was bathed. At some point, a discussion of scent happened for she distinctly heard Eric ask for _Claire de Lune_.

_No, not that cologne. Anything but that one!_

She had never wore scents when working. To spray a scent on her wrists and neck was a symbol of her being free.

 _Claire de Lune_ was a gift she had given herself when she left the CIA. She had had it for two years before she finally opened the box and used it. It happened to be the same day one Doctor John H. Watson started his first shift at the clinic. She saw those professional, pleasant, but never truly happy blue eyes and wanted nothing more than to make him smile. She wanted to know what he looked like when he smiled a smile that reached those blue eyes and make them sparkle, because she just knew they would.  It took two months, but she did it, she made him laugh. Made him laugh until tears were streaming down his face. When he dried his eyes and looked at her with that grin plastered on his face she knew she was done for. She was wearing the cologne that day as well. Though she sometimes wore other scents as well, all the important markers with John – their first date, the first time they kissed, first time they had sex she wore _Claire de Lune._

Mary had come to associate it with being free…

…being happy…

…being with John.

_It can't become a part of this._

She did not want that scent associated with this place and if she could have physically sighed with relief, when she realized they didn’t have it, she would have.

If she then could have laughed at their next choice she would have as rose scented scrub was applied to her body. Her name meant _rose of the world_ , but she associated the scent with being a child sex slave. It took years after she was free to not be upset by the smell of real roses after she was freed. Alexei and Niko may have been trying to be funny by using it on her, but the two could not have picked a better way to snap her brain into focus.

In the interim she plotted while she was prepped. She was bathed, dried, perfumed, dressed, had make-up applied and was carried to the Red Room where she was unceremoniously dumped on the bed, tilting to one side. Her eyes slowly opened, but both men were in front by her feet her moving something and didn’t see.

_Really Sebastian? The Red Room, this is the best you could do?_

She was on a huge four poster canopied bed which had restraint points built in. The walls were covered in a wine colored wall paper with a burgundy Fleur de Lis flocked stencil all over. In fact the whole room looked like a horrid mix of Maria Antoinette cum Anna Karenina with some BDSM thrown in. The room was evidently designed for people who wanted a faux baroque ambience while they watched themselves. There were gilt-framed mirrors on at least two of the walls reflecting each other and on the ceiling that she could see.

 _Left, straight down hall, downstairs two._ Mary went over what she could remember of the path they took to get to this room and the reverse of it. She knew where the stairs were and what was two floors above them more or less.

She could hear the door open and close as someone left the room.

_Which one am I left with?_

She got her lids to close again just as she was flipped her onto her back. She felt a man’s weight crawl up her body and settle on top. She guessed by the heavier Alexei by the weight.

Here eye lids were moved open and she found herself staring into the beady brown gaze of Alexei.

“[I’d fuck you here and now, but I suspect the boss wants you nice and fresh for your first client.]” He rutted against her. She was grateful for the drugs as they also dulled her nerves, she knew his erection was there by the spot of pressure on her body, but she could not really feel it.

_Keep your eyes open, Agent._

She heard the door open and someone enter dragging something.

“[Alexei, get off of her before Mikhail sees you messing with the boss’ property. The cameras might not be working again, but that bastard always knows.]” She heard Niko smacked Alexei’s leg.

“[Bah! It would be like fucking a corpse anyway.]” Alexei closed her lids again before he rolled off of her and the bed to help Niko.

_You probably would know, you sick arse._

Eventually she was propped up in chair. Gravity kept her keeling over until Alexei went to a drawer and got some rope to bind her to the chair enough to keep her from falling over. It was a high backed chair, so a pillow placed behind her head kept her facing forward. Once they were sure she was secure one of them opened her lids. Mary was facing what she knew was a two-way mirror, currently set so she could only see herself and the two men in the room with her.

_When Moran said to clean me up, he was not kidding._

Mary was dressed in an elegant lavender dress, with a deep purple trim along its edges. The color brought out eyes. Her hair was simply combed back with a side part that was adorned with a lavender flower.  She had on make-up and jewelry that was a bit much for her tastes, but it worked for the woman being presented in this capacity. She looked as stiff as she felt with her legs crossed, staring straight ahead; Alexei on one side of her, Niko on the other.

She did not have to guess what, or rather who, was on the other side of the glass.

“[Look at her eyes Alexei. She knows he’s in there.]” Niko leaned closed to her.

“[Oh but wait until she sees…]” Alexei’s eyes swing to the door as Mikhail enters talking to someone on his mobile.  He snaps his fingers twice at the two men and order them out. Unlike Alexei and Niko’s slower speech, Mikhail either speaks in a staccato or code, she could not figure out much of what he was saying other than it involved her.

Mikhail kneeled down and aimed his mobile at her legs.

_What the hell???_

She watched helplessly as Sebastian’s right-hand man filmed her shins, then spread her legs to film between them. She mentally bit her lip as her mind flashed back her last auction.

 

> _“_ She is not yet fifteen of years. Look at her.”
> 
> Rose stands still, her head up, eyes down as taught long ago, listening to the voices on the speakerphones. One of the other girls in her section, the brunette Gia, was focusing a camera was close to her head as her hair was parted several ways to show the roots. By then she figured out her potential customer was someone foreign who did not see many natural blonds and had the necessary funds to afford the cost of her and her chaperone being shipped. Her blond wavy hair long enough to cover her breasts demurely, just hints of pink areola and nipple as it moved. She could hear the changes in his breathing as she first flicked her hair away, then pulled it back to cover. One of them said something and her handler soon had the camera travel her body from the feet up.
> 
> She wanted this badly. Auctions like this meant a chance to travel. It would only be her fourth time she had seen the outside world with her own eyes. She was good. She knew this. She heard her handlers talking. But to win this chance again she had to be better.
> 
> She listened to the tones of the voices speaking. That she did not always know a costumer’s language had stopped being a barrier long ago. She knew how the read people and her handlers knew this. Rose flashed three fingers indicating she felt the voice on the third speakerphone of the five, would be the one. Her handler shrugged, whoever bid highest won, made no difference to the bottom line. When the camera reached pubis level she was made to stand akimbo. Numbers started being called out. When her handler started to touch her, she pushed the hand away. She smirked as her handler followed her lead and switched tactics making it appear as if she were reluctantly following orders to touch herself. Talking a good game as Rose used her own fingers to dip deeply inside herself then ease out and part the soft hairs there as the camera focused on the veracity of her blondness. When they heard something hit the floor through the third speakerphone, her handler quickly turned her back to the camera to hide his grin as Rose wisely ran a finger across her abdomen to her arm showing the blond hairs there as further proof. More numbers flew, three of the phones bowed out. Rose was ordered to bring herself to pleasure. She lowered her head and shook it slowly in the negative. Gia eyes went wide. You don’t tell a handler no – ever. The stings of the riding crop on her breast was cruel and fast. Almost as fast as Rose slinging her hair out of the way in time so its mark could be easily seen as dropped to the floor, raising her tear streaked face as she cupped her breast where the whip made direct contact with the nipple. She cupped it in a way the nipple poked between her middle and ring fingers.
> 
> A single number rang clear in the room. Rose did not know what that number was, but it was enough that both the handler and Gia looked at the phone stunned. When Rose looked only the third phone was still lit. A gold bracelet with her buyer’s code was fixed on her wrist. Gold. No other client can touch her until after the client is done and has returned her. Rose played hurt and cowed until the camera went off and the line went dead. Then she stood rubbing her sore nipple, a smirk playing on her lips.
> 
> “You said no on purpose.” Gia gasped catching on.
> 
> “That is why she remains the Favored One.” Her handler nodded, pleasantly “Does it hurt?”
> 
> Rose walked to the bed, grabbing her robe and shrugged into it “A little, you’ve given me worse.”
> 
> “Well then, let me give you a lot better.”
> 
> No other client can touch her – handlers were a different story. Rose was suddenly on her back, her handler on top, her dark hair tumbling down as she pulled the sticks holding it up. She grinned at the woman above her shaking her breasts in challenge. She had just enough time to brace herself from screaming as the mouth came down hard, surrounding the nipple, bit down and sucked hard arching her back up from the bed into it.
> 
> Rose’s voice was strangled as she and her handler turn their heads as one to Gia. “OUT!”

So this potential client had wanted a natural blond and wanted proof as well. Though sans lingerie, at least now she was dressed. She knew he was talking to Sebastian, but that’s all she knew. She had to figure out how to get the hell out of here before she was drugged and shipped god only knew where that would be harder to escape. First she had to wait for this damned drug in her system now to wear off so she could move.

Mikhail finished his scan of her, said something to Sebastian and rang out. He pinched in a few places on her, gaging her reaction, or rather lack of, as he checked his watch.  Deciding he had time before it wore off, she was left alone to face herself in the room.

_Left, straight down hall, downstairs two._

She can move her lids, slowly, but more freely than before.

_Right, down hall, up one, second door._

Fingers flex. Move hands and arms.

_Down two, right, down corridor, last door, down two._

Flex feet. Lift knees.

_They must have not been able to give me the full shot in that initial struggle. Good._

Rosamund has no idea how much time passes and she repeats the various pathways around the building that she remembers. All the while she attempts to regain control and move her body.

_Left, straight down ha… Oh fuck…_

Lights come on front of her, revealing the White Room she knew was on the other side. Her eyes locked on a pair of deep blues she knows so well.

_John! Is he…? My god he’s EJACULATING?!?!?!_

_SHERLOCK?!! No… not Sherlock… Who the fuck is that?_

Rosamund’s mind reels from the back to back to back shocks:

Nurse Mary Morstan sees all the cuts and scratches across his arms and chest. The welts from flogging that drew blood along with more cuts on his back. She looks at a particularly nasty slice on his upper arm and know when the adrenaline fueling him now runs out, he is going to be in a world of pain. She CAN’T think about how hurt he must be right now and shuts it down.

Wife Mary Watson sees the after effects of whatever the Sherlock imposter did to her husband to get him off. The fatigue trousers hanging low on his hips, his cock hanging out. Their eyes lock and the look on his face floors her. He’s silently laughing. She _knows_ he is! She can’t think about THAT right now and shuts it down.

Agent Rosamund Petrushenka watches amazed as the Sherlock imposter grins at her. She knows she must have one stunned expression on her face before such a tableau. She’s stunned even more as a chain is suddenly twisted around his neck pulling him up as Captain Watson swings and twist his body to capture his tormentor. Unassuming Doctor John Watson was one thing, but the agent knew what was under those modest jumpers. She’s seen his military file and his return to the army has honed his skills even more.

All the while she thinks there is no way he can get himself out of those restraints. Watching him struggle, she slowly pushed off the rope holding her the chair and even more slowly stands. She barely makes it to the wall before she's sliding to the floor. She feels wobbly and needs the wall for support, but her body obeys her again as she grabs the rope, making a noose. Everything feels as though she's moving through molasses, but she's moving and makes it to the door that is slowly opening.

John, expecting an attack from high has dropped to the floor, committed to a sweep kick before realizing who it is and barely stops the fist about to continue the attack.

She looks at the rawness wreck that is his wrists.

“How the hell did you get loose from those restraints?”

He does not answers, merely jumps up taking her with him, pulling a gun from a pocket and slapping it in her hand.

It feels a little heavier than it should, but she didn’t realize just how _good_ it felt to have one in her hands again until it is there as they make their way into the main salon.

“[What the…?!]”

John barely broke stride as he dropped Erick with a head shot and walked up to newly made corpse effectively stripping the body of all weapons. He removed the holster and passed it to her. Lastly he finds Erick mobile and pockets it. 

The captain looks her up and down, then looks around as if searching for something.

She knows what he wants and where it is. _Right, down hall, up one, second door._

“Follow me.” She grimaces.

_Why isn’t he speaking?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from R.E.M. “Losing My Religion”


	30. Then It Fell Apart, It Fell Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cracks in the dam begin to form...

_Three years previous…_

Watson follows Rosamund as she turns right and goes down the hall. Every nerve is on edge listening, waiting for the next threat. It comes as they near the top of the flight of stairs. It’s not a guard Rosamund recognized. Watson guessed if his only job was to watch a bunch of likely terrified woman and girls from escaping, he likely very new and very low in the hierarchy.

Rosamund put her fingers to her lips with one hand pushed him out of view of the door with the other. He watched as her entire demeanor changed from agent, to a trembling terrified woman. She let herself be seen before ducking beside the door. Watson simply shook his head as the young man came partially through the door, Rosamund grabbing his arm and pulling him down as Watson popped the safety off a scalpel taken from a cargo pocket, grabs the guard by the neck, quickly finding a sweet spot between laryngeal and shoves the tool through before letting him fall to the stairs.

<><> 

Rosamund watched John shove the scalpel into the young guard’s neck before flinging him to the stair behind them. She distinctly knows he does it so that when he bleeds out it mostly won’t be on the stairs they may have to go back down, still…

“Jesus Christ!”

Her voice is barely above a whisper, whether from awe or horror she is not sure. He shrugs idly and points to the door.

She leads him to the second door and stares at the keypad trying to remember the tones she heard to guess the numbers when John reached around her and punched in a code. She heard the opening buzz and pushed. She glanced at the man surprised, but did not bother to ask.

_Questions later, if he’s speaking by then._

Even though her reactions were still a little slow, her instinct was on queue as she simultaneously pulled John down to the floor with her as she fired off two shots at one of the women, even as a bullet grazed her arm. Rosamund knows a handler when she sees one and that was the only way to handle one in this situation.

He arches a brow at her.

“Oh, shut up!”

She took advantage of the stunned silence in its wake to tell them they were escaping as she searched the handler for a mobile and pocketed it. It took a moment to convince the four girls and three women this was real before they moved.

<><> 

Following Rosamund’s tactic, John in turn went low as he blasted his way into the room next door where the males were held. With the oldest looking barely fifteen it was a lot easier convincing them to leave when a bloodied soldier shoots their handler and points to the door to leave. Watson found Rosamund a pair of sneakers to wear. They were a size too large, but it was better than the nothing on her feet she was running around with. Two of the boys spoke some English and were impressed with the still silent captain. Steven, the eldest of the boys, tossed him a black tee-shirt, who methodically searched his kill to add to his weapon stash. before the group headed to the stairs.

It was all uneventful heading down when the phone in John’s pocket started to ring. He was going to ignore it, until one of the teens, Steven, boys spoke.

“No you answer, quick! Quick! No answer, they know something bad.”

John quickly fished out the phone opening it and gave it to the boy, who glance at it in panic for a moment before answering. Steven who pretends to be Erick, as if just finishing having sex with one of the boys, something he has done before.

“Maybe Mikhail believed me?” Steven grimaces as he hands the phone back and they run to catch up with the others. They are almost to the first floor when the phone rings again. John pulls out the phone sees the name on the ID. A thought enters his mind he can’t grasp and frowns.

 “Maybe not.” The teen cringes seeing Watson’s face as alarms sound.

<>==========<>

Mikhail enters the room, speaking on his phone. He does not see Sebastian’s scowl until he hangs up. They have a heated conversation and Sebastian is not exactly happy about something. The words fly by fast and they are speaking in code again, but Sherlock gets pieces:

  * The effects of the paralytic should be wearing off soon and someone named Erick is not where he’s supposed to be to administer Rosamund another dose.



_Mary, I hope you get free before they can dose you again._

  * Whatever else is going on had Mikhail not paying attention on how he entered.



_There is an entrance through the bathroom, not just the main door._

  * There is experiment happening in a white lab that should be near completion and will need cleaning. Sherlock knows it means someone is about to die and their body will need to be disposed. Twice Mikhail flicked his eyes toward Sherlock while talking about it.



_What does this “white room” have to do with me?_

  * Sebastian had started to pick up the laptop and was reminded the cameras are out on that side of the building all the way to the ground floor.  
_Well that is shoddy. Moriarty would never have let that happen._



All heads turn when Sebastian’s laptop suddenly beeps.

“A little trouble in paradise, perhaps?” Irene asks Sherlock sweetly.

Sherlock smirks. _Idiots._

Sebastian goes from not happy to furious by whatever it is he sees on his screen, immediately curses as he pulls out his mobile and speed dials a number. Mikhail likewise is making calls. From looks the quickly exchanged, neither man can reach their intended party.

Sebastian speed dials someone else who answers and starts snarling out orders as alarms sound.

“A lot of trouble in paradise.” Sherlock surmises to Irene and it’s her turn to smirk.

“If I didn’t seriously think you could help, I’d kill you now and be done with it, but don’t push your luck, Holmes.” Sebastian then points at the Jim replica, “You come with me. You three stay with these two. If you have to shoot him to shut him up - fine, try not to kill him.”

_Oh, Moran is upset! He forgot to speak to them in Serbian._

“And her?” The gun man next to Irene asks.

“I’d like to keep her, but if you need to, she’s expendable.” Sebastian, Mikhail and Fauxriraty go out, leaving Sherlock and Irene with, Blue, Red and Black as the consulting detective had dubbed the three guards.

The gunman simply smiles at Irene.

“Oh please! He may be the death of me someday,” Irene waves a nonchalant hand in Sherlock’s direction “But you never will.”

Sherlock raises an amused brow at the statement given his last thoughts towards her.

“Irene, I always meant to ask something.” Sherlock turned to her.

“Oh?”

“When we met you were wearing one of those brooch things with a face – oh what do you call them? The one you got from the Pope’s town. ” Sherlock frowned as if trying to remember something.

“The Pope’s town?” The amusement danced in Irene’s eyes as she was fully aware Sherlock Holmes forgets nothing, thus was very aware of what she was wearing, or rather not wearing, when they first met. 

He sees when it all comes together on her face.

“You mean the Vatican cameo?”

“Yes. What was that about 420?”

He watches her figure it out. “Yes, about £420.”

“You, be quiet!” Black, the guard to his left, orders.

“Fine.” Sherlock leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers and starts mentally counting backwards from four hundred and twenty.

_Okay Agent Petrushenka, I’m coming to find you in about seven minutes._

<>==========<>

As soon as she pushed open the door to the near empty garage Rosamund knew their string of good luck had run out. She could not see an exit in her immediate line of sight. She turned the women behind her.

Their blank faces, start to panic as an alarm sounds.

_Fuck!_

_No wait, I know that sound._

Staying close to the wall, she half jogs to the end and peeks around. _Yes!_

It is the warning alarm as the automatic door rises to let vehicles in and out.  There is a side door to the street. That was the good news.

There was an office to pick up or drop off said vehicles right next to that exit. That was the bad news.

The phone inside the office rings. She can tell by the expressions of the one that answers that they’re absence is noted. It is confirmed when the two men inside jumped up and grabbed automatic rifles. That was the worse news.

_I will be dead to the game or ahead of the game, I will NOT be taken again._

But Rosamund can’t make that decision for the ones behind her. She looks at the various eyes placing all of their faith in her right now.  Her eyes automatically find the little girl in white that Sebastian had in the first room with she and John.

_Christ how did I get to be the Pied Piper?_

She sees all the males make it to the garage level, but the one she wants to see when she hears shots fired.

“They’re coming!” The oldest of them yells.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know!”

_Fuck!_

Rosamund swings back to see the two gun men making their way towards them. The only thing between her and freedom.

_I can’t wait._

“I’m sorry John.” She whispers, drawing her weapon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Moby “Extreme Ways”


	31. By The Grace of the Fire and the Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You did not tell Sebastian about me, good. But you did not tell me about Sebastian. You knew he wanted me, was setting up for me and you did not tell me. You let me sleep with you knowing all of this and did not tell me. But what has happened with this…?” Sherlock touched the discs through his shirt, settled comfortably on the chain against his chest, as walked to the door. “This alone makes you anathema to me. You betrayed me.”
> 
> Irene looked up at that. She saw the look in Sherlock’s eyes and _knew_.
> 
> Sherlock raised the gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in a word - crazy. It is chopped into short POVs of John, Sherlock and Mary. Essentially it is all happening between the three characters roughly around the same time. I tried to tell it in a more normal narrative, but all three characters were not having it.
> 
> For anyone familiar with the American TV show “24” think three view screens on one monitor showing the scenes running concurrently. )

_Three years previous:_

Sherlock slowly stands.

“Where are you going? Sit! Down!”  Black sitting beside Irene orders.

“I absolutely not will sit down. Your boss created a facsimile of this room. I presume that includes a bathroom. That is where I am going. Unless you want to hold a vase or bowl for me here in the salon, with the woman as a witness, as I urinate.” Sherlock pulled his haughtiest tone, looking at Red to his immediate left as he circled behind his side chair. He tripped as he neared Blue who reflectively held out his arms to catch him.

Sherlock latched on to the arm, swinging to drag Blue down to the floor as he used Blue’s gun to shoot Red. He heard a yell and a gunshot coming from the direction of the sofa as he and Blue hit the floor. A well placed elbow put Blue out for the count. Sherlock quickly stood, the gun snatched from Blue’s hand brandished until he confirmed it was Irene stepping over Black’s body and not the other way around.

“While I honestly would not mind being a witness to seeing you, I certainly would not like to see you doing that, thank you.” Irene lowered the gun she took from Black.  Sherlock searched Blue finding another gun, wallet and mobile, then moved on to Red to do the same. He spins nearly shooting Irene who had calmly walked up to the unconscious Blue and shot him.

“He was down!” Sherlock snapped as he walked over to search Black as well.

“Now we know he will stay down and not come behind us and kill us when he comes to.” She explained calmly.

Lastly, Sherlock put on his blazer, grabbed Sebastian’s laptop, putting it his bag with the two extra guns. He flicks his eyes at Irene’s heels and inwardly sighs.

_All right, Petrushenka, I know whatever chaos happening is your doing. Let’s get us out of here._

“Let’s go.”

<>==========<>

Gun drawn Rosamund runs for it.

Her first two shots take down one of the guards, before she’s pinned behind a column.

She looks around frantic hearing him come towards her.

“ROSAMUND!” Sebastian bellows and she knows by the gun shots and screams he is shooting at the boys, girls and women as they run. He is out of her line of vision, the guard is. She can try to shoot the guard from her position or Sebastian, she can’t do both.

She looks at the door so close, so far and makes a decision.

“[Never again!]”

The agent does not have time to be stunned as the second guard drops from several shots delivered from one of the women pumping bullets until the gun is empty.

“RUN!” Rosamund screams at her indicating the door as she runs to the downed man grabbing his assault rifle. It was a make she was not used to, feeling unnatural in her hands, but she’s got a handle of it just enough time to duck behind a column as she and Sebastian spot each other.

He has handguns, she has an assault rifle.

She sees at least four bodies behind Sebastian. She tries not to think about them as the two stare each other down. Some part of her acknowledges that the side door she spotted earlier does in fact go out to the street, idly noted it is dark out, as the ones who able to run go for it.

“[Go!]” She tells Steven who was limping, and carrying one of the little girls.

Sebastian can shoot Steven or shoot her, not both. She fires off a few rounds giving Steven a chance to get out of the line of Sebastian’s fire as the man dives behind a car.

“[What about…?]”

“GO!”

<>==========<>

Watson had just enough time to wave at Steven to go and duck into door as bullets whizz past. He runs the corridor towards the exit sign on the other side, hearing the doors to the stairs he left open he ducked in the first door that opened and locked it.

He listens as Mikhail footsteps run past.

“[Who are you?]”

Watson spins. His intended victim’s panicked expression is less from the gun barrel mere inches from his face and more because as the gun’s handler glances around the room they are in, Watson’s face breaks into the most feral smile.

The whisper of a thought gets a little louder as Watson shoots.

The shot brings two others in the room running toward Watson. He walks calmly taking them down as he steps further into room. He knows he has mere minutes at most to do what he wants before Mikhail circles back. The soldier only has one thought as he quickly works.

<>==========<>

Sherlock and Irene run through the bathroom, down a corridor, her heels a loud staccato behind him as his long limbs get him to a door with a keypad first.

_Six numbers. First number is eight. No time._

“You need to...” He starts to speak then stops as he realizes Irene is next to him, having ditched the heels. He nods once in approval taking her hand when behind them they hear the door with the keypad open. Sherlock is by the door by the time the Jim imposter steps into frame.

“[How the…?]” The henchman’s eyes go wide seeing them.

_Can’t pull his gun from that angle._

He throws a punch which Fauxriarty reflectively grabs Sherlock's arm in an attempt to block.

Sherlock arches a brow at the contact as Fauxriarty tried to hook Sherlock’s left leg with his own, trying to throw him to the ground. He turned forward and twisted around until the fake Jim's arm is pinned up behind his back, slamming the man face-first into the door that was swinging closed. That a part of Sherlock truly enjoyed the satisfying crunch of a nose breaking, immediately followed by the outcry of its owner went without saying as he idly noticing Irene go around them into the room.

“You put your hands on me, again.” Sherlock hissed in his ear. He felt more than saw Faux-Jim’s flinch beneath him, pulling the trigger. A blade drops from the now dead man’s fingers as Sherlock releases his hold, the body sliding to the floor leaving a ghastly trail on the door.

Irene’s sudden gasp draws his attention as he enters the room, his eyes quickly scan seeing the restraint points, the chains, the secured chair bolted to the floor. It was a room that had been used within in the past few days going by the fading, but still present smell of sweat and blood in the air.

_Oh._

When his eyes lock with Irene’s again a chain was dangling between her fingers. She was shaking her head slowly, as she looked at him with tears falling from her eyes. She took a tremulous step back from him.

_She has never backed away from me in fear before._

“Irene…” His eyes narrowed…

“I…I didn’t know. Sherlock, I swear I didn’t know! I had told him I knew I could bring you in if you ever answered. But he - Sebastian promised. He promised he would not do this. He _promised_!”

Everything in her bearing filled Sherlock with certain dread as he recognized what was in her hand…

…and drew his gun on her.

<>==========<>

The door to the other side of the room bursts open. Mikhail enters and stops short at the all sorts of wrong grin coming from Watson who shoot towards Mikhail before tossing his empty gun before running out the exit near him.

The thought that started as a subconscious susurrus, had slowly increased in volume and intensity in Watson’s mind as he has moved about.

He hears when Mikhail dives to the floor and can only imagine the man’s face as he spies the grenades rolling towards him.

The grenades missing their pins.

Watson leaps over the railing, the one thought loud and clear.

_Ego sum Mors de manum certa._

**_BOOM!_ **

<>==========<>

Rosamund takes advantage of Sebastian ducking behind a car to make a dash to the wall closest to the door.

She loses sight of Sebastian when she glances as the door to freedom slams shut behind Steven.

_Where is he?_

“Rosamund! I don’t want to kill you. I want you to live so I can watch you suffer.” Sebastian yells.

She fires in the general direction of his voice, seeing him in just enough time to watch him dive. _Shit! Stupid move agent. You know better._

She runs the less than ten feet for the door

A bullet grazes her arm just as her hand touches it.

**_BOOM!_ **

<>==========<>

Gun still drawn on Irene Sherlock holds out his hand.

He slowly lowered the gun as she placed the chain and their attached discs in his palm.  

Though he has not seen this exact one before, he understood what the discs in his hand were and what it meant that they were here in this room. He draped the chain over his head letting his hand closed reverently around the discs as he clutched them to his chest.

“ _WHY?!_ ”

It was a tremulous, broken wreck of a sound made all the more powerful from the sheer quietness of it coming from him.  His face displaying all the emotion suppressed in his voice.

“I never thought you would answer me! You never had before, let alone answer in person!” Irene’s entire body trembled as she sobbed. “I didn’t tell Sebastian. He said someone named Karim saw you, followed you to my room, saw me enter. He worked for one of Sebastian’s men and told.”

“You did not tell Sebastian about me, good. But you did not tell me about Sebastian. You knew he wanted me, was setting up for me and you did not tell me. You let me sleep with you knowing all of this and did not tell me.  But what has happened with this…?” Sherlock touched the discs through his shirt, settled comfortably on the chain against his chest, as walked to the door. “This alone makes you anathema to me. You betrayed me.”

Irene looked up at that. She saw the look in Sherlock’s eyes and _knew_.

Sherlock raised the gun.

**_BOOM!_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Imagine Dragons “Believer”


	32. It Rained Down, It Rained Down Like Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Come, Let’s Get Sun Burned._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> The mnemonic for the layers of the skin float through Watson’s mind, the scalpel brutally slicing flexor through muscles until it hit ulna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and one more for the action sequence that would not let me go forward until I wrote it all.

_Three years previous:_

Rosamund groaned shaking dust and debris from her head. Everything on her seemed to hurt. She desperately wanted the license of the truck that hit her.  Except she knew it wasn’t a truck, and if it were, she had the sneaking suspicion the driver of said truck was named John Hamish Watson.

_What in God’s name did you do Watson?_

The force of the blast slammed her into the door partially bending it out. She was wedged between the door bent door and debris that had fallen on her. The good news there was enough debris that Sebastian could not get to her, at least not from that direction. The bad news she was pinned, not able to get enough leverage to move her leg or push the door open more.  She had dropped both handguns when she fell, only finding one. She grabbed it quickly aiming at the sound of metal scraping the ground behind her.

 “Missus!”  A somewhat familiar voice said above her. She looked up and let out her breath in a relieved rush. Steven.

_He stayed!_

Steven and the other young teen who spoke English, Danny, was with him. Steven was trying to wedge the bent door to open more, while Danny slipped the small space to step around her carefully and began moving the rubble until Steven was able to get his arms underneath her and pull. Something sharp dug into her side as they pulled.  She gritted her teeth to keep from screaming until she was free.

 “You’re bleeding!” The woman who shot the security stopped her, pulling out a small shard of glass from her hip.

“You speak English!” Steven blinked “What is your name?”

“Some.” She smirked “I am Samaira.”

Rosamund stood and carefully dumped her left pocket. She had landed on the mobile, the impact breaking it into pieces.

_Well that’s not good._

“Samaira, I need to find John and a phone.”   She pointed at a small park across the street “We need to move.”

When they were across she looked at the building that had been her prison. More important, she looked at the fire flaring out of the first floor of the building near the back.

_John, where are you?_

<>==========<>

The ringing in his ears brought John groggily around. It was more than the alarms going off.

_What the hell just happened?_

He quickly assessed himself as he slowly stood. The blast had shaken the building, but it stood.

_Other than adding to my cuts, scrapes and lacerations, tinnitus and what is promising to become one hell of a headache the transport is operational._

_Christ! Did I just say_ transport _? Damn you, in my head, even now._

He mentally grinned looking around, wrenching open a door. He reflectively caught the rifle strap that slipped down his arm, then blinked. He remembered taking the handguns from Sebastian’s people. He looked at the weapon in his hands and the second strap slung across his chest. He didn’t remember obtaining them. Suddenly feeling extra weight, he carefully checked all of his pockets only remembering the small sharps and handguns he carried, finding two grenades in his pockets. It was not the first time his soldier’s mind went on autopilot in dangerous situations, but not like this – he usually remembered every detail, no matter how horrible the choices he may have made.  He looked at the fine silt still falling and thought of the blast.

_Not NOW soldier. Later._

Watson took a deep breath looked around the garage he found himself in.

_Oh no! No! No! No!_

He saw their bodies. Two of the boys, one the women and one the of the girls. John knew they were dead, but he went to each anyway and confirmed them. He knelt by the last – the little girl. It was not the little girl in that was in the room with them, and a part of him was thankful for that, but this girl was close in age.

_THEY WERE CHILDREN!_

John’s soul raged. It was about to be made vocal when a scraping sound caught his attention over the tinnitus.

Instinct made him flinch down just in time to feel the blur of the blade fly past where his neck might have been had he stayed still.

It was barely enough time to duck most of the impact from the fist of the blade’s thrower.

 _Most_ of the impact.

The part of Moran’s fist that connected nearly had him seeing stars as the man tried to wrestle the rifle away from him, lifting him from the floor.

Moran had about 17 centimeters and at least 6 stone on him, Watson knew he was never going to win in hand-to-hand against him, he had to shoot him and he could not do that if Moran got the rifle from him.  In the struggle Sebastian’s finger hit the trigger causing chucks of the ceiling to fall around them.

He wrapped one arm around the barrel, hooked it through the second strap and dropped to his knee. The impact wrenched one of Moran’s hands loose as Watson twisted away.

Moran grabbed him by the throat with the other hand and started to squeeze.

John felt it. Felt the breath being forced from him, as he desperately reached for it.

_Yes!_

Moran roared as Watson jammed the scalpel in his arm with all his might.

_Come, Let’s Get Sun Burned._

The mnemonic for the layers of the skin float through Watson’s mind, the scalpel brutally slicing through flexor muscles until it hit ulna. The damage made worse as Moran pulled away as Watson held the scalpel in place, battlefield experience of knowing how the hold a slippery instrument before letting go.

It was the moment he needed to back up, wrench his other arm free and grasp the Glock free from his back waist band and fired into Moran’s hand, the one trying to free the scalpel.

“I thought you said you were going to fucking kill me.”

Moran laughed, taking a step forward.

_You’re right I did._

Watson fired again.

_I did say I was going to fucking kill you._

Moran staggered from the impact of the left thigh shot, but still advanced forward.  

“So fucking kill me!”

_I did not say it was going to be quick._

Watson blew out the right knee. Moran wasn’t laughing anymore as he fell to his left knee.

_That was for the little girl._

John fired a gut shot.  Moran screamed putting one hand out to break his fall as his other covered the wound.

_That was for Mary._

Not surprising to Watson at all, he watched as Moran was determinedly crawled towards him.

Moran stopped when Watson slipped a rifle strap over his body and held it by the barrel as Watson smiled.

_And this is all me._

He swung.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Imagine Dragons “Believer” 
> 
> 17 centimeters/6 stone in UK is roughly 8 inches/80 pounds in US (I suck at maths - your mileage/kilometer may vary). Let’s just say my John is average height for a male, but slightly above average build being military fit. Sebastian is a big damn dude of height and build for any male, especially one who has kept himself near military fit.
> 
> The mnemonic for the layers of the skin/epidermis: **C** ome, **L** et’s **G** et **S** un **B** urned
> 
> \- Stratum **c** orneum  
> \- Stratum **l** ucidum  
> \- Stratum **g** ranulosum  
> \- Stratum **s** pinosum  
> \- Stratum **b** asale


	33. It's Impossible, A Man Like Me, So Irresponsible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He groans loudly in frustration trying to stand, dirt and blood in eyes half blinding him when he spies a black tee shirt, fatigues and a rifle pointed at him.  
>  _Sebastian!_  
>  Sherlock raised his gun and fired.  
> ====  
> John looks up - partially sees the dirty bloody face, the dark curling hair and blinks.  
>  _No!_  
>  I killed him! He’s DEAD!  
> But he could not remember if he checked.  
> The man groaned as he tried to stand, saw John, raised his gun and fired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay the crazy action arc of this week is slowing down. The boys lay eyes on other at last, but... yeah.

_Three years previous_

_God damn it!_

Mycroft slammed his fist on the desk in an uncustomary show of frustration and worry.

Anthea, the closest to him glanced up, but continued typing on her laptop.

He saw Anthea's quick glance and Ignored it. It was the sudden jumpiness of the techs nearest them as their typing became more frantic that made him snarl at himself.

 _Breathe Holmes, they are doing their jobs as best they can_.

Sherlock has been missing for five days, his trail cold after Morroco. Mycroft has checked every alias he has been known him to use - nothing. That’s not to say the frustrating man had not created yet another, which he very well may have via his own connections to slip Mycroft’s tail, but he has never gone four days without contact before. Even if it was only to pop up on a random CCTV or ping a tracking device, only to disappear again, just to let Mycroft know he was alive - he would do _something_. There was only one exception: _Serbia._

That was how Mycroft knew Sherlock was in trouble. He just did not know how serious until he walked into that room and barely recognized him. This was his baby brother – his riot of curls had grown long and straggly, his chained arms outstretched, head bowed like a modern day Christ, his body bent, bruised and lacerated. He knows Sherlock honestly believes he enjoyed it, but that was furthest from the truth. It took every decade of his training to sit there, feet up, his face placid, watching the whip, the metal pipe connect. Mycroft was silent from shock, because he knew if he spoke his voice would have given them both away. He counted out exactly twenty-five minutes in his head before he spoke and used their code. The relief in Sherlock’s body upon hearing his familiar voice would have made Mycroft cry right then and there were he not so furious with the man for being so reckless to get so caught to begin with.

Mycroft took a deep breath and then another. He knew he should have deleted that image of Sherlock back then, for it is what haunts him now as he looks at the wall of monitors before him. Satellites picking up coverage globally. Some peeking into places the government should not be looking. Eight directly in front of him just covering Serbia. Still nothing.

 _How can all three of them simply disappear like that_?

Watson has been missing for six days, Petrushenka for fifteen. He can yell at Sherlock for Petrushenka and they will be okay eventually. Sherlock just might severe ties with him over Watson. Neither of them would do well. Because Mycroft knew, KNEW, in spite of those caustic words he tossed out at the debriefing, two years later, Sherlock Holmes was very much still in love with Captain John Hamish Watson.

Sherlock rarely mentions him, but when he does, for those like Greg, Molly, himself and even Mrs. Hudson knew. More than two years after, he still does not ask Mycroft about him. He does not know Mycroft was having Watson sent on as many dangerous missions as possible during the first year. The captain surely suspected as much. Intel of a conversation regarding siblings came about and Watson’s snark of how he endures the trials of brotherly love reached Mycroft. Ironically, of all the missions he personally had a hand in sending Captain Watson these two years, this last patrol was not one of them. If his brother suspected Mycroft’s involvement in John’s military life, he has not said anything.  Sherlock trusts that he would be told of anything important.

 _Yet you did not tell him, Watson was MIA_.

Mycroft had tried to reason it to Elizabeth that it was better for the Petrushenka mission that he did not know. In a way it was, for Mycroft knew: given the choice of finding Mary or finding John, the captain would trump every time and he knew Mary would not really find fault with that.

Something on one of the monitors to his left caught his attention. He watched it for a few minutes.

He sighed in annoyance, picking up a phone, “Put me through to the Beijing embassy.”

“Please don’t take it out on them.”

He barely heard the more prayer, than whisper, but he heard it.

“Them or you?” He said to his PA archly.

Anthea, nonplussed from years of working with him, appeared to actually be considering what she knew was not entirely an idle threat from him.

“Mycroft, put the phone down.”

_She used my first name?!_

With a wince at realizing she did, quickly adds “Please, sir?”

He can only recall three times in all their years working together she had done so in private.

 _She used my first name._   _In public._

Mycroft hung up the phone.

He was about to head back to his office when one of the techs a few desks over called out.

“Sir! We got something!”

Mycroft stared incredulously at the map and ID that appeared on the monitor before him.

“What in the hell is he doing _there_?!”

<>==========<>

“Sherlock!”

“Sherlock!”

_Shut up!_

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock groaned and slowly opened his eyes.

“Oh, thank God!”

_What… Why am I on the floor?_

“Sherlock!”

He tries to sit up, it hurts. He collapses back.

_Alarms. Dirt and plaster. Debris. Oh, something blew up._

The back of his head felt wet, he touches it gently.

_Laceration. Minor. Blast. Heat. Explosion._

“Sherlock!”

The blast had shoved them further back into the room. He noted the cabinet fallen over on its side, its contents spilled into the crumbled floor. As if he had not already discerned the room’s purpose, the restraints and cattle prods only confirmed it more. 

 “The floor feels warm.” Irene noted idly.

“The fire is below us we’ve got to get out of here before the building goes.”

Sherlock quickly, but carefully picked his way over the debris, lifting Irene over the mess that was not Jim Moriarty before setting her down in the corridor. It was already starting to fill with smoke at the stairs nearest the door. They started running towards the opposite staircase.

He felt John’s dog tags shift against him as he ran. The room was not white, but Sherlock knew people had die there.

_John?_

“Sherlock?” Irene touched his arm. He had stopped in front of the stairwell door, but not moved otherwise.

_No, Holmes. Live first. Mourn later._

He touched the door. Cool to the touch. _Good_.

Still opened it carefully. Something had dripped from the stairs above. A quick glance at Irene’s face told him she knew it was blood.  He starts to go up the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“Stay here or go; I have to confirm it’s a body and not someone hurt.”

He hears Irene going down and shakes his head. It’s just as well.

He did not have to go far. The amount of blood that had dripped on the landing above was enough to confirm, but he had to be sure.

He almost grinned when he saw the scalpel sticking out of the man’s larynx. It was too precise a kill even for someone with Petrushenka’s skill.

_At least you gave them a good fight doctor._

He is nearly to the ground floor when shots are heard from below. As he reaches in his bag for one of the handguns he missteps, careening down the last steps his forehead slams hard into the glass of the door, the woven wire throughout is the only thing that keeps it from falling in shards, the impact shatters it none the less, he staggers to the rail before falling to his knees.

A voice his heard, but he can’t pick it out over the alarms blaring and his head pounding from the impact with the door.

He groans loudly in frustration trying to stand, dirt and blood in eyes half blinding him when he spies a black t-shirt, fatigues and a rifle pointed at him.

_Sebastian!_

Sherlock automatically raised his gun and fired.

A flash of heat and light behind him catch his attention.

He leaped over the rail.

**_BOOM!_ **

<>==========<>

Watson fell to his knees before Sebastian’s body, dropping the rifle, its butt slick with blood and some gray matter where Watson had connect with Moran’s skull repeatedly.

The one eye still in its socket seem to be looking at him in surprise.

_Surprise motherfucker!_

His laughter reverberates in the garage.

_Oh, I do watch too much American telly._

At least he thinks it is laughter. He is not sure if he is laughing or crying as every square centimeter of him screams as loud as the alarms.

_Or is that the tinnitus?_

_The adrenaline is wearing off. Oh, I’m in for it now._

There is a slow creaking sound as a door opened and closed behind him. Then there was the all too familiar sound of a building creaking as it shifts. He remembered what was in that room and knew more explosions were coming.

_I’ve got to get out._

He forces himself to stand feeling the pull of the grenades in his pockets. He emptied his pockets of the grenades he did not want to be caught with them outside. He found an exit behind the stairwell and was about to go through when heard someone crash into a door and fall.

_Friend or foe?_

He had to find out, the doctor in him could not knowingly leave someone who could be helped, die in a potential inferno. He propped open the exit door with the rifle in his hand surprised to see it was night out and went back to the stairwell.

“Any one up there?” He called out, second rifle at the ready.

John looks up - partially sees the dirty bloody face, the dark curling hair and blinks.

_No!_

_I killed him! He’s DEAD!_

But he could not remember if he checked.

The man groaned as he tried to stand, saw John, raised his gun and fired.

John dived for the open door the bullets just missing him.

**_BOOM!_ **

Watson didn’t think about the fireball that flashed above his head as the blast rained debris and the doppelganger down. His suit partially burned down to his back and arm, he could not flip him over to pull him out without risk of abrading the already damaged skin.

_God damn it, move doctor!_

The stairwell was blazing in earnest above as he grabbed the man by the arms and dragged him out of the stairwell where he had enough room to maneuver him into a fireman’s carry and ran out of the building. He could hear sirens in the distance closing in fast.

He did not know where he was. If it were a friendly country or not. If it were safe for a British soldier.

_Dawn._

John saw the still dark but definitely lightening skies. He felt his body about to fail him.

_I need cover. Where to put him?_

He saw the park across the street and a hydrant a little down and ran for it.

He placed the man face down by the hydrant just reaching the cover of the park as the first fire truck pulled up. He stayed long enough to see that Not-Sherlock was spotted before he disappeared further into the park.

John found a bench and sat, slowly assessing the damage to himself. It was still dark, but between the burgeoning day and  the street light it was enough to tell him he was going to need help and soon. 

_No! Must make…call first._

He reached in a pocket and found his mobile. 

He was about to enter the password for his own mobile when he saw the screen and realized it was not his phone, but the one he took from the guard on the stairs and it was not locked.

He entered the only number that mattered to him and prayed. It went straight to voicemail, but that was enough.

“Sherlock. I’m alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from – Elton John “I Want Love”
> 
> Apparently John watches a lot of American Telly. Who knew?  
> ["Surprise Motherfucker"](https://youtu.be/_bSEfx6D8mA) is yet another reference from _Dexter_.  
> 


	34. I Know I Left Too Much Mess And Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iiiiiiiiiinhale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interlude chapters are hard...

Petrushenka watched with horror as another explosion, much worse than the first, blew through the first floor of the building. She fell to her knees oblivious to the gravel digging into her skin as she rocked back and forth, gritting her teeth, her nails digging into her palms to keep from screaming.

_Oh God! JOHN!_

She had been captured in Serbia, but that was two weeks ago. She should have called for extraction when she first got the mobile and saw the date, but she did not trust the phone, nor the ears around her at the time. She had no idea what country she was in. Did it have an embassy? Should she be British? Irish? American?

She could hear the firetrucks coming.

_Okay a modern enough city to have a nightlife and emergency services is a good thing._

She looked up at the burgeoning dawn. She could see more of the park they were hiding in. It was not a much of a park. It would not be much for cover in another hour, but it was still too early in the morning. There would not be enough passers-by to blend in with and steal someone’s phone.

_And what do I do about Steven and Danny and Samaira? They did not leave me. I can’t abandon them to try to save myself._

She slowly stood and glanced at young Danny, trying to be look and be brave, but the adrenaline rush of escape had worn off and exhaustion set in. He looked even younger than his eight years as he sat on a bench leaning against Steven, trying to stay awake. Steven was flexing his sore ankle and Samaira…

“Where is Samaira?”

“She went to go pee.” Steven answered.

She felt for the gun in her pocket, popped the magazine and checked the chamber. She had five bullets.

“I saw the way you handle that. Are you a British soldier too like he was?” Steven was trying to be nonchalant, but he was scared.

_“…like he was…”_

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Steven realized what he said.

“Yes.” She bit her lip putting the gun back together, just in time to draw it on a running Samaira calling her name who stopped short at the sight of it.

“Don’t do that!” Rosamund whispered harshly.

“Him found. Your soldier!” Samaira beckoned already turning to run back.

“Stay here!” Rosamunde hissed over her shoulder as she ran after the woman.

Samaira led her to an unconscious Captain Watson on a bench a phone in his hands.

“Oh thank God!” Rosamund felt over John. He was filthy from the explosions and sticky from more than sweat. His pulse was rapid, but steady.

She the mobile from his hands, recognizing the number he called.

_You call HIM first? Oh John…_

The mobile did not have much battery life left. An actual call may kill it entirely. She put in a power-save mode, sending a coded text instead. She all but sagged with relief when a coded response with instructions came through just as John was coming to.

“Mary…?”

She saw Samaira’s brows go up at the name.

“No, Rosamund. And we need to move now CAPTAIN.”

_That did it. Always the soldier.  
_

Watson’s eyes fully opened at the use of his title. She watched his eyes take in his surroundings, see it all come together in a matter of seconds as he sat up.

“You connected?” He saw the mobile in her hand. She nodded.

“Excellent. Lead on.”

_He’s speaking! Thank god!_

They were blocks away when a van appeared.  Codes phrases were exchanged.

“Who are they?” An agent put out a hand to block Steven.

“They’re with me.” Rosamund stated from inside the van.

“Our instructions were to get you. No one else.”

“No one else?” Watson raised a brow.

“Sir!” The man blinked, recognizing him, he looked to Petrushenka, “You did not say Captain Watson was with you.”

“So, what part of _they’re with me_ was not understood?” Watson narrowed his eyes. “They don’t get in, I don’t get in. Want to explain to explain that to your superiors?”

They were let into the van.

Rosamund quirked a brow at that.

_Since when does he boss around my people?_

“Where are we?” John settled in a seat.

“Tbilisi, sir.”

Petrushenka’s head whipped to the agent.

Watson let out a string of creative expletives in multiple languages - stopping only when Danny gasped and Steven outright laughed.

“{You curse in Farsi almost like a native.}” The agent sounded impressed.

Watson outright groaned.

“Where are we, headed?” Rosamunde asked. The agent answered.

“No. We’re going to the airport.” Watson responded calmly.

“Captain we need to…” The agent started.

“No, we’re headed to the airport. Give me a line, now.” Watson spoke over him and held out his hand waiting until a mobile was placed in it.

Watson texted his own coded message. There was some back and forth before he handed the phone back to the agent.

The agent looked at the mobile and Rosamund knew by the agent’s disappointed face that whatever Watson had done was erased from the mobile's immediate memory.

Watson sat back and closed his eyes. A few minutes later word came back from the driver announcing a change of plans - they were going to the airport.

Both Rosamund and the agent glanced at Watson. His eyes remained closed, but the tiniest smirk played at his lips.

“You enjoyed that didn’t you?” Rosamunde leaned into him with a not exactly amused whisper.

Watson turned his head to her and opened his eyes long enough to slide her a dirty grin and then closed them again.

<>==========<>

Watson and Petrushenka were taken straight to the airport. He did not want to be in Tbilisi a moment longer than necessary. He followed protocol long enough to see that Samaira, Steven and Danny were taken care of.

Samaira, she did not know her surname, was sold into the trade by her parents. She had no home she wanted to go to. They were working something out for her. She offered to take Danny if no one was available.

Eight-old Danny Fischer’s mother had died in one of the brothels when he was five. He had been shipped from brothel to brothel and had no idea of his father’s identity. Finding his relations, was going to take some time.

“Mama?!” “Daddy?!”

Steven Forde had been kidnapped two years ago while on a family vacation. The sixteen-year-old had been courageous and steadfast throughout the night. It all ended as he fell apart at the sight his parents’ faces on the video monitor. The strangled sob that ripped from the teen’s throat was as gut wrenching from this side of the monitor as hearing his mother’s repeated cry of her child’s name as answered prayer from the other side.

John held the still sobbing boy for a long while as Steven thanked him and Rosamund profusely before they parted ways. The tears of joy that overflew all around was something no one there would forget for the rest of their lives. As for the rest who made it out of there – who knew? He thought briefly of the little girl in the white dress.

_Godspeed darling wherever you are._

Watson had no idea he was gone for seven days until he saw the date on the phone in the park. He just wanted to be back on base and was quite vocal about it to the Tbilisi agents. Petrushenka was giving him the side eye as he completely shut down anything from her end of the pay grade.

“Anything you care to tell me?” She hissed in frustration.

John gave a slow roll of his eyes as response as the plane took off.  He did not begin to relax until the plane taxied toward the airport and saw Donnery and the jeeps waiting for them as part of the escort to the new location of the base.

“You look like fucking shit, Watson.”  Donnery barely picked his jaw up in time at the sight of the dirty, bloodied captain.

“You should see the other guy.” He deadpanned. Donnery raised an inquisitive brow.

The corner of his lip twitched as an image of Sebastian Moran’s body flashed through Watson’s mind.

_No, really. You should._

“You’re coming with me.” The major indicated a jeep. Watson noted Petrushenka was being escorted to a different jeep. He had expected as much.

_And here we go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from – Dido "White Flag"


	35. A Doorway That I Run To In The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand exhale...

_Three years previous_

Partially through the ride to base, everything had caught up to John and he passed out. He was taken straight to emergency medical. His fatigues and t-shirt were so caked with dirt and blood, the t-shirt especially had to be dampened first to be cut off in order for him to be properly triaged.

His left arm was the most damaged and was in a compressive stocking and a soft cast. As bad as it felt at time, his right arm was not cut as much or deeply, given a compression sleeve and a standard sling, but not a cast. Physical therapy was already proving to be such a joy as isometric exercises had begun practically the next day. He had slightly less than 100% of full range of motion in his left shoulder from the scarring already there, it may drop a little lower still, but his arms will be functional enough for most of his medical duties. Only time will tell how functional for most of his military ones. His lower back required stitches as well, _fuck you very much Louie_ , but it was mostly topical. The back would heal well before his arms. The rest of the minor cuts and lacerations were taken care of via butterflies or left to heal on their own. He will have scars on the left arm as permanent mementos of this service, to go with the scar on his left shoulder, from the first round of service. Add in the potential for lingering pain in the arm which he can only pray, that like his shoulder, will eventually be tolerable. Doctors of course being traditionally known for being the worst patients, John was the worst and these were fellow doctors who knew him. The battle was to not let him over exert himself and as Eades will succinctly put it in a couple of weeks when the skin stitches come out, “God dammit Watson, stop being a hard arse and take the fucking Paracetamol when you should. Or I will do to you what you threatened to do to Petrushenka that time and shove them down your fucking throat!”

Petrushenka had given her report and was there when he woke up in recovery. She gave him a kiss on the forehead and then left barely speaking to him. He was disappointed, but not surprised. Her being allowed to see him in recovery was a courtesy from those that knew their marital status. Her not being able to talk with him until after he had been debriefed was an order from those that knew their military status.

Three days later after arrival, he was released and went straight into debriefing. As always, it was arduous and after ridiculous hours of giving his account from the moment the helicopter blew until laying eyes on Major Donnery, Watson was DONE. At some point Rosamund (as was phrased by one of the higher officers to his superior “Petrushenka is raising a considerable amount of shit in her insistence, sir.”), was allowed to join him and they debriefed again on the times they were with each other.

They were in what was once a ballroom of a hotel. The hotel had been beautifully appointed once, and may well be again, but for now it was partially demolished on its upper levels from a bomb blast months ago and was now being temporarily commandeered as command post until they could head out. 

“Captain Watson. Where are you going?” Lieutenant Colonel Daniels turned as John stood.

“We have been at this for hours. No new information is coming from either of us, no matter how many different ways you rephrase the questions, sir.”  He started to reach to pick up his gear and stopped. He glanced at Mary who had stood as well and picked up both of their bags.

“Agent, your people have been contacted. Your pick up will be at 2300; Captain, yours at 0100.”

“No, my departure will be after 0800, Sir.” Watson cut him off.

“Excuse me?” the lieutenant colonel bristled, not used to being challenged.

“Sir, Agent Petrushenka was kidnapped and shot at. Captain Watson was kidnapped and tortured.” Major Donnery spoke up. “They both have been debriefed separately and now together. I am sure they will happily return to being our dutiful soldier and agent again, but considering what they’ve been through, a few hours rest before we have them back out on the firing line is not too much to ask, is it, sir?”

John nodded at Donnery gratefully and rubbed his face, wincing as his hand accidentally ran roughly over a cut, re-opening it.  John reached into his bag finding a length of gauze to staunch the flow. He was so grateful when Donnery had handed him his kit, he had almost wanted to kiss the major. Yes, it was a replacement kit, but everything was set up as he would have had his own kit. He knew it had to have been Eades doing, she knew how particular he was about how his kit was packed. He’ll have to remember to thank her. He can’t carry any of it yet, but simply having its familiar bulk within his grasp again – felt so good.

John was grateful for everything, he really was, but right then and there listening to Daniels rant, he really wanted to reach in and uncap a scalpel.

“She is an agent that got caught and is her owner’s issue to deal with, not ours. The captain, however, is the Royal Army’s, his arse IS mine. Pickup is 0100.” Daniels spoke with a finality. John sensed there was tense history between Donnery and Daniels with John and Mary caught between as he was choosing now to be a tool about it. While the lieutenant colonel cannot do anything to the agent directly, he was making her unnecessarily miserable through him by proxy. Major Donnery was trying his best to keep things from getting out of hand, but Daniels was the superior to all of them.

And John gave not a shite as he turned and took a step forward.

“Captain!” Mary hissed low. The sudden sharp feel of her fingers digging into his arm stopping him in his tracks likely spared John from a potential court martial and dishonorable discharge. John turned his head slowly to her. She loosened her grip seeing his face. Major Donnery quickly spoke over the something a bit not good the major knew was about to drop from Watson’s mouth as the captain turned to Daniels again.    

“Hell sir, look at him, he’s barely got out of medical before starting the debrief. He’s bleeding again.”

“Who’s bleeding again…? As you were.” Field Marshal McCarren walked in catching the tail end of the major’s statement, casually returning the subordinate salutes at his entrance, turns to John surprised to see the soldier and the agent standing there as they salute. “Hello again Agent Petrushenka. Captain Watson, what the bloody hell are you still doing here? I thought Upton let you out of debriefing two hours ago.”

Watson started to speak, but caught Donnery’s face begging him not to. He snapped his mouth shut with a near audible click, and pointedly swung his eyes from McCarren to glare at Daniels instead.

McCarren noted the unspoken exchange as he follows Watson’s line of sight to the lieutenant colonel and sighed loudly. “Goddam you Daniels, stop being such a twat. You can’t STILL be arsed it was Petrushenka’s team that had to rescue your sorry arse back from that mess near Baghran can you?”

Watson’s eyes went momentarily wide. He had heard rumors of an American commando unit that entered a mini hell on earth, to rescue members of a British unit caught behind enemy lines. It was an ugly firefight with casualties on the American side and some serious collateral damage to boot, but the mission was successful. He knew the major had once served under Daniels, when Donnery was still a captain and by the barely suppressed gleam in Donnery’s eyes, Watson could now guess where the tensions began between them. The field marshal must have an equally antagonistic relationship with Daniels to let that detail even be implied in the mixed clearance of the room. The already quite pissed-off lieutenant colonel, now even less happy at having that information in the open in front of John, likely wasn’t even aware as he reached up to touch a scar along the right side of his jaw which John suspected was obtained then. 

Watson half turned at the not quite silent snort from Agent Petrushenka. Looking over his shoulder, his brow raised in a query he knows she cannot officially confirm nor deny. Still, he just caught her wolfish glare at Daniels before her agent’s face slipped into a cool mask, suddenly finding a spot on the wall in the distance to be something very interesting to observe, even as her eyes danced. Watson somehow knows Petrushenka is responsible for Daniels’ scar.

“ _In arduis fidelis._ My girl.” Watson whispered with a smirk before turning back to the field marshal.

“And in case you forgot, the man who took down Sahrain damn near single-handed, no offense Donnery, is not in your unit.” McCarren glanced at Donnery who waved it off not offended in the least at the truth, before he continued, “You are leaving at 0100, with me. Watson leaves with his unit when they say and I know it’s not before 0800. Agent Petrushenka your situation has been brought to my attention and your arrangements have been changed.”

“What _situation_? And exactly _what_ has changed?” the agent’s intense focus on the distance spot swung to McCarren.

“I understand your husband is on the premises.” McCarren’s face gave nothing away. Mary blinked. “Francis give Captain Watson your keys.”

“She’s married?” Daniels really could not help himself any more than John could stop the groan that escaped in response to it.

Donnery dug in a pocket and tossed the keys to Mary, who caught it mid-air, single-handedly and passed it to John. John felt the fob and knew they were keys to a room upstairs; John nodded his thanks to his friend.

“Sirs, as Major Donnery has correctly stated, Agent Petrushenka and I will happily return to our respective posts come morning and perform our sworn duties to Queen and Country. As for right now I am desperate to take a real shower, find a bed and to tend to Agent Petrushenka injuries in depth for I am still a doctor and she has been shot. Though not necessarily in that order. After all I suspect my wife would like to take first priority here.” 

Daniels looked clearly confused by John’s statement. Rosamund barely suppressed the giggle that erupted as Watson tendered the lieutenant colonel a look that gave full testament to the captain’s opinion of the man better than any words could. John looked to Mry with a smirk and waved his free hand towards the exit. “Shall we leave, wife?”

Mary purposely slug her rifle over her shoulder in a way that displayed the bandaged arm, before picking up her gear and John’s and returned the smirk with a nod as they headed towards the doors. “Oh absolutely, husband.”

“That bitch is his WIFE?” Daniels sputtered incredulously, “How is that even possible?”

“I suspect because that bitch married that bastard.” McCarren deadpans.

The last thing Watson and Petrushenka heard before reaching the doors was Major Donnery’s quip, “And then consummated each other’s brains out.”

The last thing Donnery, Daniels and McCarren hear is the agent’s amused sniff, “That was a pretty adroit description from McCarren.”

“And from Donnery.” The captain agreed as the doors closed behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Queensrÿche “Silent Lucidity” 
> 
> My knowledge of medical procedures is mostly movies and television, I know - I know... I beg serious creative license forgiveness for any and all the incredible inaccuracy I have going on with John.
> 
> In Arduis Fidelis, the regimental motto of the British Royal Army Medical Corps can be translated as "Faithful in Adversity". It sums up the character and the ideals of the soldiers and officers who wear the cap badge, and is just as applicable to all in times of peace as it is in war.


	36. But I Can Still Remember Just The Way You Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He grabs her by the waist and shoves her back hard into the wet wall.
> 
> “I. Said. Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

_Three years previous_

John and Mary were so happy to be alive and out of debriefing, stopping only so John could take his much needed painkillers by then, they did not know what to do with themselves as they reached the room. John slammed the hotel door lock into place automatically grabbing a chair to jam under the door handle. Mary tossed their respective bags on the floor beside the bed. They cleared the closet, bathroom, opened every single drawer and double-checked every window. By unspoken agreement they met in the center of the room. He removed the soft cast, the sling and both compression sleeves. John watched as Mary inspected the bandages around both arms, but especially the left, noting they were water resistant. Neither really knew what to say to the other, so they simply held each other; his arms slowly going around her in a loose grasp as hers went tight around his in a desperate grip.

“We’re in the middle of several hot zones, if Mycroft has you put back out there…” Mary’s shook her head sharply desperately trying to dismiss the end of that thought.

“I’m not going anywhere for at least a couple of weeks. I’m willing to bet he’ll wait until he gets a hold of records stating my condition first. If I’m recovered enough he’ll put me back out there again. And I’ll do what I’ve been doing: keep on living.”

He felt her shudder as a hand stroked gently down his left arm.

“I’m alright, Mare.” He whispered into her hair.

“No, John, you’re not.” She whispered into his neck.

“No, I’m not. Don’t know if I ever was really or ever will be totally. But I will be better than I am right now, eventually. I can’t ask for much else.” He conceded, kissing her forehead built out of reflex of being in her arms. “Will that do?”

He felt her slowly nod against his cheek, as she kissed his jaw. Neither thought about it as both tilted their heads until lips gently met in the middle.

It was too much.

It was not enough.

John ran his tongue over her bottom lip gently before sinking his teeth in not so gently, smiling to himself as feeling that familiar tremble go through her. He captured her tongue with his and they battled as he tightened his grip around her waist, aiming her towards the bathroom. She ground her pelvis into him, enjoying his growl around her tongue. Neither stopping when she reached out a hand feeling for the taps.

They separated at last to quickly, desperately strip. Each taking stock in the other’s collected scars and bruises. Seeing her arm, the doctor inspected the two bullets grazing. It was going to sting under the soap and water, but was good enough on its own to not have to cover it. He looked at all the tiny cuts on his torso and suspected he may need another trip to Medical in the morning for his back.

He looked to Mary…

_But that was in the morning._

<><> 

The moment Mary saw the acceptance in his eyes she stepped backwards into the shower pulling him with one hand, grabbing a flannel, shampoo and shower gel with the other.

By unspoken agreement they cleanse each other, starting with washing each other’s hair. Neither wants to think about the newest wounds on their bodies as they clean themselves and each other. Mary’s head lolls in pleasure as John’s strong fingers washes and massages her head, knead her shoulders, her back. She nearly slips, her legs weakening in the pleasure. He pushes her to a wall with one hand splayed on her chest, holding her in place as he leans into her.

“Don’t move.”

His voice is a throaty growl in her ear. He moves his hands to the wall framing her head as he leans in to draw a teasing tongue along her ear to her jaw and chin finishing by taking gentle licks graduating to brutal ownership her lips. Nothing else touches for a couple of minutes until he slowly brings his fingers to brush along her neck, shoulders, outer and inner arms until he finally cups her breasts, thumbs running lazy circles around her nipples, all the while their lips, teeth and tongues battle until she forces her mouth from his nearly hyperventilating. She leans into his touch, takes a step closer to touch him, wanting more of him. He grabs her by the waist and shoves her back hard into the wet wall.

“I. Said. Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

His grin is near feral as he feels the delicious shudder that runs through her body at his command. John lifts her arms, bending her elbows. She automatically laces her fingers behind her head, splaying her arms against the wall. The tiniest momentary twitch of his lips tells her he is pleased as they lock eyes. He does not break eye contact as he takes a breast in hand, rolling a swollen nipple between his thumb and index. He does not break eye contact as his other hand slides up between her breasts and then down her abdomen; teasing pulls of her pubis making her hiss. He does not break eye contact as his tongue snakes out to her lower lip as he increases the pressure of his fingers on her nipple, drawing a low deep moan from her. He does not break eye contact as fingers slide further, separating her lips to play with her clitoris.

<><> 

John gritted his teeth as soap and water initially stung until he simply could not feel them anymore. The wonderful, wonderful painkillers doing their job. He smirked watching her desperate doomed fight to not loll her head back and give in to the pleasures. His eyes narrowed as his controlled soldier’s fingers combined with his delicate doctor’s touch and slid in.

“John…”

His name a breathy keen on her tongue. Her laced fingers saving her from the brunt of the impact when her eyes closed and her head slammed back even as her hips arched forward into his administrations.

The moment her head slammed back, breaking eye contact, he took that poor abused nipple into his mouth and bit hard enjoying the feel of his wife’s body convulse as she bit back a throttled cry. This was his wife, he may not be sure of the play of her mind or her heart, but by God he knew how to play her body!

And he played her well.

He alternately bit and licked her breasts and nipples marking her as his fingers worked her. He slid his tongue her body as he slid to his knees, spreading hers. Running kisses and littles bites between her trembling thighs. He snarled and nipped at her clitoris when he felt her hands on his head. She immediately put her arms back into position moaning loudly as laved the area, easing the minute pain before flicking the tip of his tongue against her clit. The vibrations of his chuckle against her when she bucked her hips in frustration at the tease nearly undid her. He smiled viciously taking her apart as she oscillated between begging him, cursing him and moaning in the pleasure of him.

_“John!Damnyou!Letmecome!Fuck!Please!”_

Thrice he brought her to the edge, but would not let her fall over. He smiled inwardly when he felt when her arms slide down the wall to her sides because she simply could not hold on any more.

He leaned fully into her, pressing his hardness against the slickness of her. It felt so good. Too good. In torturing her with pleasure, he had likewise tortured himself. It was going to be quick.

“Look at me.”

He ran his hand through her hair and pulled, placing a small lick at the hollow of her throat. Mary whimpered his name begging, her body thrumming.

“LOOK AT ME!” He ordered.

His own voice guttural as he positioned himself watching her come alert at the recognition of his voice.

Her eyes pop open, pupils blown.

_“Come for me.”_

And he _shoved_.

Neither could move for a moment as something raw and savage soared through them. The left arm around her waist, the other grasping the wall for support, he slowly withdrew almost to the tip and just as slowly entered the full length of him. Someone keened, he thinks it was him or it might have been her.

It didn’t matter.

He took control of her mouth again and slammed into Mary setting a brutal pace, cutting off her screams, cutting off his own moans as her wet heat surrounded and took him. Now he was begging, pleading, as he slammed hard into her and felt her violently fall apart, her orgasm tightening around him as he continue to thrust through it.

He doesn’t know when he fell to his knees, but somehow did so without losing connection to her. He just felt that final thrust that went deeper than ever, ragged screams ripping from both throats as he explodes into her.

<><> 

Mary felt him soften and slide out a short while later, still hyperventilating he did not let her go.

“John…”

Mary has felt John shake in laughter, shudder in repulsion, she knew his tremors of afterglow, how he trembled as he cried after a bad PTSD nightmare.

This was different.

“John?”

_Oh shite…_

She felt the vibrations in his core spread up and out. Only her hand holding his head in place as her mouth quickly covered his muffled the sobbing scream that erupted from the very soul of him.

She held him as everything he has endured in the nearly three years since he left her, since he left London, since he left Sherlock came pouring out in incoherent sobbing sounds.

She knew he could not feel her as she slowly disentangled herself from his lap onto the shower floor. It was a Herculean effort for her to stand again, turn off the taps and then guide her husband to the bed. They were both still soaking wet as she pulled the covers back, but when her knee sank into the yielding mattress as she lowered herself beside him on the bed, she could not be so arsed to go back to get towels. She did a rough check of his dressings, determined they would need changing, but it could wait and simply crawled in behind him, pulling the covers over them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from – Staind “It’s Been Awhile”
> 
> I'm not ecstatic with this (pun fully intended), I hope you liked it. There's no real excuse for this. I just figured John deserved a moment, after all he'd been through, you know? And as the old Crosby, Stills and Nash song goes: "...if you can't be with the one you love, [love the one you're with...](https://youtu.be/_5IVuN1N6-Y)"


	37. I Just Want Something I Can Never Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good morning to you.” She replied just as softly.  
>  _But who are you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny thing happened on the way to the keyboard...
> 
> When I started this story back in June, I named it "Beginnings End" because the story was supposed to end with the resolution of the friendship with Sherlock's "Goodbye John" at the end of Chapter 12. Ironically, for a chapter that was named "It’s All Ending, We Have To Stop Pretending Who We Are" both John and Sherlock, and damned of all even Mycroft, turned out to have much more to say to me and thus, to you. John and I especially had a serious Battle of the Keyboard (I'm pretty sure I lost, but I'm not owning up to it).
> 
> Now at triple what was initially intended, I have surprised myself, and I hope, only disappointed very few of you.
> 
> As I post this 36th chapter, I want to take a moment to acknowledge all of you who have, read, given kudos and commented. For a first-timer dabbling into fan fiction as a writer, it means so very much. Here's a heartfelt _**THANK YOU**_ to each of you. 
> 
> Here's hoping you continue to enjoy this tale as this arc winds down and the boys take us up into the next.
> 
> InnerSpectrum,  
>  _Obviously, InnerSpectrum, who else would be writing here?_  
>  **Oh shut it, Sherlock!**

_Three years previous…_

When Mary awakened again John was standing by an early morning dawn filled window door. His body was mostly shadow to her; still she studied his form in the burgeoning light. His arms were spread out in a loose grasp of the door frame, the vertical blinds of the door sectioning his form.  She could see that he had both compression sleeves back on, but was otherwise nude.

Even in the time they were happily together, he rarely stood completely undressed before her except in the bathroom. When waking up nude, as soon as his feet touched the floor, he looked for pants or a dressing gown to don.

_Something has changed._

He stood there as living art, a shadowed rear view Vitruvian Man as it were. Even bruised, stitched and scarred he was wonderfully proportioned. She was almost afraid to breathe for fear her breath would somehow travel and displace the air around him, alerting him to her wakeful presence as she admired him and disturb the moment.  

“Good morning, Mary.” He called out after a while, his voice softly amused. So he knew she was awake and did not move to cover himself. She found herself liking this new boldness.

“Good morning to you.” She replied just as softly.

_But who are you?_

For all their shared past, the dappled sunlight of morning found them surprisingly shy around each other. Where in the middle of the night they had awoken and fucked each other senseless again, the morning found them making love with an entirely different, yet equal passion. Mary did not lie to herself as she offered herself to him – a gift from her to John – it was a moment of love, there were no other words for it.  John did not lie to himself as he brought his lips gently down to hers – a gift from him to Mary – it was a moment of love, there were no other words for it.

His tears mixed with hers as they laughed, cried and talked, honestly talked in a long overdue balm.

“If I should stay, I would only be in the way. It would only muddle things. I… wait… did I just..?” Mary paused as she pulled the thread through, replacing some of the stitching in his back.

John chuckled “Yes, Mare, you did exactly what you think you did.”

She winced at John’s slight hiss as she tied it off, “Ooh, sorry!”

“I know, it’s alright.” He flexed slightly testing the pull of his muscles.

Mary shook her head and continued “I know where I stand, John. The crazy thing: for all that has happened, what it has done to us, I’m not mad at him anymore. At any of us.”  

“I’m not sorry Sherlock is alive. I am sorry what it did to us. I probably could have worked out who you really are and lived with it were it otherwise, but _it is what it is_.” He went silent for a long while as he turned to face her, but she waited knowing more was coming, “In Tbilisi… I didn’t put it in my report, but I knew you were on the other side of that glass. I knew he wanted you to see what he could do to me. He wasn’t going to stop until… until I did. I gave in to that voice. The voice was perfect in my fucked up head. In that moment I wanted him, because wanted it to be _him_ so badly, Mary. If the real thing is unobtainable to me, why not give into the illusion, if only for a little bit? So I… So I gave to him, Mary. I came to _him_. It only made me realize how deeply I wanted, still want, the real him. Yet, that will never be. I still don’t know what to do, how to move on from him. But I have to.”

“We’ll both figure it out for ourselves.” Her smile was tremulous as she reached out and cupped his face.

“I know.” He whispered as reached out and cupped hers in turn, kissing her.

Their touches of each other are soft, gentle, tender one last time - for both understood this would be their last time.

Mr. and Mrs. Watson were no more.

<>==========<>

Knowing the captain well, Major Donnery was waiting when John and Mary stepped off the elevator into the lobby at 0700 exactly. The two didn’t speak, but they were smiling. Mary gently leaned into John’s shoulder for a moment, looking for all the world like any loving couple on honeymoon; providing the couple wore military fatigues and Kevlar and were armed to the teeth. By some unspoken signal the two turned and face each other. John, the husband, kissed Mary, the wife. It was a good kiss as he wrapped an arm around her waist and she fell into him. Donnery felt almost uncomfortable watching, as something clearly intimate passed between them before their lips separated. Watching them, even Donnery understood it was not “ _Until the next time…_ ” but “ _Goodbye._ ” Simultaneously they nodded once and stepped back from each other. Donnery watched impressed by the two as Mary placed his John’s gear on the floor by his right side. He could all but feel the temperature around them drop as their shields rose. John and Mary morphed into Captain Watson and Agent Petrushenka within seconds. Were he not watching them, Donnery would have all but sworn the two people who then pivoted in different directions and walked away from each other were complete strangers to look at each now.

Even behind the sunglasses, the captain that stalked toward him now looked very much in control.

Too in control.

_Something has changed._

Major Donnery was not sure how he felt about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Nine Inch Nails “Something I Can Never Have”
> 
> [The Vitruvian Man](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/22/Da_Vinci_Vitruve_Luc_Viatour.jpg) which is translated to "The proportions of the human body according to Vitruvius", or simply L'Uomo Vitruviano, is the classic drawing by Leonardo da Vinci around 1490.


	38. Whatever Tomorrow Brings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And what if he wants out, or invalids out again, but does not want… Baker Street.”  
> Sherlock noted the pause in Mycroft’s words.  
>  _If he does not want ME, you mean._

_Three years previous…_

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, immediately wrinkling his nose.

_Yet another hospital then. You really need to get you act together, Holmes. This is getting tiresome._

_Not in London._

_Why am I on my stomach?_

He starts to reposition himself and feels the pull of the bandages on his upper back and shoulder.

_Oh._

His mind quick shots in various flashes. Seeing the fire coming at him. His desperate leap. The jolt of pain while seeing rubble as John pulled him to safety. Then nothing.

_John? No, Sebastian._

_No, that cannot be correct. Sebastian would not pull me to safety._

He turns and sits up slowly, careful of the bandages. Touches the one on his forehead.

_Door. I crashed into the door._

“Welcome back, Captain Watson.” Mycroft’s ever sardonic tone pierces through.

_Have I ever awoken in a hospital and he was not there?_

“Hello Mycroft.” Sherlock chuckles bitterly.

A part of Sherlock was immensely grateful for his brother's presence and would have liked nothing better than curl against Mycroft's solid form as he had done as a child, when he knew he would always find comfort and encouragement in his older sibling's embrace. Yet, another part of him despised this weakness. They were no longer children and the idea that the omnipotent presence of his big brother would keep the demons of the everyday life away had crumbled to dust a long, long, long time ago.

Mycroft gives him the date and time. Five days had passed since he left London.

_Wait, WHAT did he call me?_

He immediately touched his chest, the dog tags were gone. He looked to his brother .

“You were wearing them when you were admitted, Brother Mine. They think it’s your name, funny that.” Mycroft held his laptop in place with one hand as he reached over to the nightstand and held them in his hand. “I have Watson’s name set to have me informed if he were ever hospitalized. Imagine my surprise when I saw it pop up three times in two different places on the same date.” Mycroft stood, placed it around Sherlock’s neck and sat again.

Sherlock touched the tags and waited for it. Surely Mycroft was going to berate him for the sentiment. When Mycroft said nothing he realized his brother was waiting for him to say something.

[“Imagine my surprise when I saw it pop up three times in two different places on the same date.”]

Sherlock remembered the room with the chains, the smell of sweat and blood, and shuddered.

“John... he made two calls. He is alive? Okay? Mary?”

“Yes, they are alive.” Mycroft nodded. “We saw when Mary was kidnapped. She was drugged and beaten, but not tortured anywhere near as badly as Captain Watson. He was gone for nearly a week. His injuries were extensive enough that the attending O/R surgeon was said to have asked…” Mycroft paused to scroll the screen on his laptop, looking for the exact quote before continuing. “…“How in the hell is he even alive?” at the sight of his condition.  He needed surgery for damages to both arms, his back required extensive stitches, his torso minor stitching. He’s expected to fully recover from those; however, his biceps, particularly his left bicep, are what sustained the worse damage, most of it from forced use after the initial wounds were inflicted and are what in question. He will be in physical therapy for a while, but they will have a better determination of his recovery in a couple of weeks. I’ve read their reports. The things he managed to do under the circumstances… Let’s just say Captain John Watson is one very resilient man and I’m glad he serves Crown and Country.”

Mycroft put laptop down. Sherlock nodded slowly as the pertinent words sank in: _Alive_. _Expected recovery._

A thought crosses Sherlock’s mind. [“He was gone for nearly a week.”]

_Oh Brother mine, you ARE low! If I could hit you again right now, I would._

By Mycroft’s reaction to him, he knows his brother has figured out where his thoughts took him.

“You used him to manipulate me to go somewhere it turns out I did not need to be and you did not bother tell me he was MIA!” Sherlock hissed. “Do not EVER do that again.”

Mycroft looked up quickly, saw Sherlock’s face. The two understood absolutes between each other when evoked.  Anything major concerning John Watson, good or bad, was an absolute he wanted, needed to know.

“Understood.” Mycroft nodded and changed the subject, “I was able to follow your trail as far as Morocco when you activated a tracker there, but then we lost you. Irene’s presence here was quite a surprise. I think you need to fill me in on how you got here.”

“And where exactly is _here_ , Mycroft?”

“Tbilisi.”

_Tbilisi??_

“Oh, I suspect your report is going to be very different from Watson and Petrushenka’s. Talk.” Mycroft quirked a brow at his brother’s gobsmacked brow.

Sherlock did.

<><> 

Mycroft did not interrupt him until Sherlock reached the part of Sebastian pulling him from the stairwell.

Mycroft reached down and pulled up his laptop again. “These are the only footage we could get so far. We can’t tell if most of the cameras were damaged by the fire or not working to begin with.”

“They were not working. I overheard a conversation saying such.” Sherlock confirmed as Mycroft pulled up a video and turned the laptop towards him.

It was a CCTV from the side of a building. A camera was aimed at a door.

Irene Adler stepped out. If Sherlock had not just informed him of Adler’s involvement Mycroft would have been taken surprised by the subtle hostility coming from his brother. Irene Adler was never one of Mycroft’s favorite people to put it mildly, considering how close she came to bringing him and the government to its knees. Still, he knew this hostility did not necessarily mean Sherlock would not protect her from him if he went after her. 

He saw Sherlock blink as his brother watched the figure of Captain John Watson carry him fireman style out onto the sidewalk. Lights of the oncoming rescue vehicles were in the near distance. John went out of view of the camera, but another angle from a camera facing the park across the street picks up. It shows Watson placing him down by the hydrant before disappearing into the park. The last showing when the rescue found Sherlock.

“He saved your life without ever knowing it was you. In his reports he states even with all the doppelganger did to him, he could not knowingly let him die in what could have been an inferno, and he couldn’t stay to because he would have been caught by emergency services and the police.”

Mycroft had read the initial reports from both Watson and Petrushenka. He had watched the live feed of the debriefings. He saw the photos of the remains of the four victims, the security guards, seven unidentified bodies and of Sebastian Moran.

Mycroft showed Sherlock the photos of Moran’s body.

“It is impossible that Moran was the one who rescued you. Initial evidence concluded by that point there was a scalpel in his left arm, a bullet in his right hand, his right knee cap was blown out, he’d been shot in the abdomen and most important of all, half Moran's skull was bashed in.”

He waited and saw when it came together for his brother.

“Scalpel. John killed Sebastian. Oh God! I shot at him! Were I not seeing stars from having just cracked my head into the door I could have killed him!”

“Were you not seeing stars, you would have realized the type body was wrong.” Mycroft calmly corrected, “As it was you saw fatigues, a black t-shirt and a rifle pointed at you. You immediately thought Sebastian. Watson saw the suit, the overall build. He did not get to see that it was not your face in his understandable haste to take cover from you shooting at him and then after securing your safety, escape a hostile environment. Both Watson and Petrushenka reported seeing the doppelganger. Neither of them knew of your presence there, thus when Watson’s name came up as being in this hospital hours after his pick-up by us, I knew it was you.”

“I take it my doppelganger is dead, then.”

“Petrushenka confirmed Watson killed him in her reports. I imagine he’s among the charred bodies collected. There was one whose bone structure fits your build. I can understand the reasoning in recreating Jim Moriarty. I hope the laptop you rescued will provide answers on why Moran decided to duplicate you. Thank you for that by the way.”

“All part of serving Queen and Country, Brother Mine.” Sherlock sniffed.  “Have you or anyone told him, it was me?”

“No.”

“Then don’t.”

“And when he eventually figures it out? Because you know he will.”

Mycroft hides his smirk as Sherlock glanced at him, bemused by the admission.

_Yes, Sherlock – even I understand the captain does have decent intelligence - for a goldfish - I can give him that much credit._

“Then he does. It does not change at that moment he rescued his enemy. A man who, as far as he knows, shot at him moments before. Still he rescued him. That is who he is. He serves the Army still because HE feels he is not worthy of me. That is who he is.”

Mycroft noted the emphasis, but said nothing. There is comfortable silence between them, each in their own thoughts for a while.

“What else regarding him do I need to know?” Sherlock breaks the silence at last.

Mycroft blinks.

_He has never directly asked about John before now. What can I tell him he cannot find for himself if he really wants to know?_

Sherlock’s laser focus, eyes glittering a dangerous grey in the hospital lighting, was solely on him. Mycroft had forgotten how disconcerting it was to be the one on the receiving end of that glare.

_When Sherlock looks like that he will rip apart any fabrication from me._

So he tells a truth.

“I may have suggested his name come up more often to serve in the more dangerous missions.”

“ _May_ have?” Sherlock's voice is ice.

_This caring is a dangerous thing._

“The Captain is surprisingly capable in the field, yet ruthless for an army medic.”

_Mycroft…_

_-He HURT you Sherlock! -_

_I know!_

_\- What do you want me to do? -_

“Sherlock, do you want me to pull him out?”

<><> 

Sherlock’s first instinct was to scream _Yes!_ He knows if asked, Mycroft would have done this for him, but that is not what he wants.

“No. I did not order him away, Mycroft, you did and he left. I cannot pull him back. If he wants to be back, to be with me, he will come and you will NOT be able to stop him.”

_I know this. I need John to know this for himself, one way or another.  
_

“And what if he wants out, or invalids out again, but does not want… Baker Street.”

Sherlock noted the pause in Mycroft’s words.

_If he does not want ME, you mean._

“Then so be it. He goes where he wants.”

_And I will do exactly what I’m doing now. Living my life, the best that I can, without him._

“Whatever you’ve done to him, or still doing, stop.”

_He’s suffered enough with this alone._

“I can honestly tell you, I had nothing to do with this last one that got him captured.”

“Oh, just _this last one_? Well that’s right good of you, considering, isn’t it?” Sherlock did not even try to hide the sarcasm. He is  somewhat mollified as Mycroft at least had the grace to flush. Technically, Mycroft closed his eyes for two seconds; on a normal person it would be a flush.

“And I have little control over should his name comes up organically.”

“Understood. He must still serve, finish his tour and re-up again if he chooses.”

Another long silence lingers between them before Mycroft breaks it.

He knows Mycroft wants him to be fully cognizant of the ramifications of what is not being asked.

“If he does not come back. If John Watson dies out there, Sherlock, this time it’s on you.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and shuddered at the cruel possibility of it. 

_I know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Incubus “Drive”


	39. Don't Feel Nothing, Just Old Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stepped back to just inside the door to take in the whole again.  
> All three panels were gilt framed and hung on the wall as though it were a featured exhibit in a museum.  
>  _It was macabre and sickening and yet…_  
>  “Just beautiful isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter has a graphic description of a corpse and crime scene. Skim down to "All three panels were gilt framed..." if you wish / need to avoid the gory details.

_Two years previous…_

Sherlock noticed Sally Donovan waiting at the entrance to the abandoned townhouse. They were by no means friendly to each other after his name was cleared, but they had something of an unspoken truce. As in she did not speak to him unless absolutely necessary, while he still goaded her every chance he got. He mentally rolled his eyes per usual upon seeing the sergeant then stopped sort, something about her giving him pause.

_Pantsuit – she rarely wears trousers and today is actually warm out. Rubbing her wrist. Favoring her left leg, the knee bothers her?_

He starts whistling “Mustang Sally” as he approached. He knew she heard it, by the sudden stiffening of her posture as she folded her arms across her chest. Her curly hair swung slowly in the wake of the negative head shaking of her lowered head.

“Just… Just go, Sherlock.” She sighed as he neared, one hand lifted to gesture vaguely in the direction of the door.

_No snappy retort? How bad is the crime?_

As he entered the building, a bobby met him with plastic shoe covers and a note. He opened the note recognizing Detective Inspector Lestrade’s spiky penmanship.

“DO NOT argue, Sherlock. Put them on, you will thank me.”

He glanced at the green-about-the-gills officer, “That… bad?”

Sherlock was about to say “good” and caught himself, automatically hearing a familiar reprimand in his mind.

_It is a crime scene, someone is dead. For God’s sakes, Sherlock Holmes, wipe that smile off your face!_

He ignored the note, putting the coverings in his jacket pocket and headed towards the glow of lights down the hall to the scene. The stench hit him first. It was days old.

“Lestrade, this had better be…”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he took in the scene and froze.

Entranced by the scene, he took one half step in and felt it immediately. The floor…

He backed up to wipe bottom toe end of his shoe. He could see several others had done exactly as he had. Whatever it was, it was viscid to say the least.

_Oh, Lestrade! Thank you!_

He put on the shoe coverings.

The carpet had absorbed so much of the blood, there was no way to enter the room and not step in it.  Natural paths had been made along the walls to the less dirty spaces – because he could not call any of it clean. 

A female lay sprawled across a triptych. Her left appendages were on one panel, left whole other than to be pinned to the panel. Whereas the right appendages on the panel closest to him, were sliced open to expose the layers. Her head and torso in the middle panel was split opposite.  The left side sliced open to display layers, the right side was left intact, in opposite of the adjacent panels. Even the severed head was sliced down the center, half intact half, half the skin peeled away and pinned open to show the musculature and skull. The skull was half scalped, the hair with attached scalp pinned to its immediate right.

The overall appearance of being an excellent anatomy teaching tool.

He pulled out his pocket magnifier, leaning in as close to the right body parts and the right panel itself as he dared without stepping further onto the rug.  He had to walk around the slightly cleaner area to leave the room, then come in from the other side of the same door to examine the left panel and frame from that angle. He could not get close enough to the center panel without stepping fully onto the carpet. He could see slight evidence of other shoeprints.

_Was not killed here._

_Left-handed._

_Likely male._

_Precise cuts._

_Someone very familiar with cutting open a body._

_Doctor? Pathologist? Butcher?_

_No, too detailed. Definitely used a scalpel._

_Doctor or Pathologist._

_Too much blood absorbed in the carpet for one person._

_Another victim?_

_Had at least one assistant._

He stepped back to just inside the door to take in the whole again.

All three panels were gilt framed and hung on the wall as though it were a featured exhibit in a museum.

_It was macabre and sickening and yet…_

“Just beautiful isn’t it?” Gregory Lestrade appeared beside him, the sarcasm evident.

_Actually, it really is._

“Lost your lunch, Detective Inspector?” Sherlock sniffed instead.

“No, but it helped that I had not gone to lunch yet. Sally took one step in and immediately got out here. I suppose it is good thing to see she still feels it. It has been a really long time since I’ve seen her that moved by a crime scene.” Lestrade sighed his head turned to the wall as if seeing through them to the woman outside.

 _No, that’s not it._ Sherlock gave the woman a second’s thought, then dismissed her.

Lestrade waved a tired hand at the grisly work. “It’s going to be a bitch getting this all to forensics once they are done documenting on site.”

“Who is it Everette? She’s decent. She’ll have them focus on keeping the triptych intact as much as possible. Tell her to save every nail, screw, twine - whatever was used to rig this up to the wall.  Also be careful about the carpet. There are shoe impressions around the base of the center, they hung that panel last. I don’t know if any are useful.  Also at this end where it’s closer to the middle of the door.” Sherlock indicated the areas. 

“They may have stood there to admire their work.”  Greg frowned looking at it. “Ya, no one would go through all of that, frame it and NOT want it to be seen. Just what we need: another narcissist murderer vying for attention. This is going to turn into a nightmare. I just know it.”

“This isn’t his first.” Sherlock had to agree.

“What?”

“He’s done this or something like this and we have not found it, yet. This…” Sherlock gestured to indicate all of the crime scene, “This is grandstanding. We cannot ignore this and there will be another.”

“Sherlock…” Greg’s voice held a note of exasperation.

 “What?” Sherlock took his eyes off the scene to see the detective inspector pinch the bridge of his nose.

“ _Please_ stop smiling...”

_Oh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Elton John “I Want Love”


	40. Sometimes It Hurts Instead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh God, Holmes, what are you doing?!_  
>  Sherlock had not felt guilt at all, not even when he realized Mycroft had come by, taken the list and left without saying a word or leaving any other evidence of his having been there.  
> But this…? Her silent disappointment in him?  
>  _This is untenable._  
>  Sherlock put his head in his hands ashamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Labor Day to my fellow Americans who are enjoying the day off. For those who actually have to work today, I hope it's an easy stress free day for you.

_two years previous…_

Sherlock and Mycroft argued from St. Bartholomew’s without saying a word. Both brothers were aware of her presence of course, but Anthea’s visibly trying to make herself as unobtrusive as possible as she sat between them in the sedan brought it their attention more. This naturally, only cause a verbal argument on who upset her more. Sherlock was all too happy slamming the car door in Mycroft’s face as he exited in front of 221B.

_I thought he was a street worker and gave directions to the clinic that had a staff not as judgmental to whores as the place he was trying to find. I mean really! How was I supposed to know the magistrate’s eldest son was volunteering his time there while in uni? Or that his athletic scholarship was in wrestling. Not that it did him much good against me. Why did I have to apologize for breaking his leg? He didn’t know ME on sight and I’ve been on the telly!_

Seventeen steps later he entered through the main door first, the Belstaff barely made it to its hook in the hall.

Sherlock circumvented the living room heading straight for his bedroom and plugged his mobile to charge, then listened to the message.

_The Message._

The only message he keeps. 

> Mycroft had given him a new mobile while still in Tbilisi and he downloaded his calls. Seeing the date and time and not knowing the number, he had ignored it thinking it was Irene. He did not want to hear from her and had not thought about it again until he was back in London. He had nearly deleted it unheard until curiosity got the better of him. He had just closed the front downstairs door to the foyer behind him at 221B when he finally pressed play…
> 
> _“Sherlock. I’m alive.”_
> 
> …And his mind palace quaked.
> 
> It was late-afternoon when Sherlock first heard the message. It was after dark when Lestrade -thanks to Mycroft who had called the detective inspector from Beijing- found the consulting detective still sitting on the stairs. Greg gently slipped the mobile from Sherlock’s fingers and led the stunned man upstairs.
> 
> _Oh John, you suffered so much when I died. You had no way of knowing I did not know you were MIA. Yet in spite of all this, you could not do to me, what I had so cruelly had done to you._
> 
> _The pain. The utter exhaustion in your voice. The fire, the torture, Sebastian, being shot at._
> 
> _In spite of it all – your very first thought, your_ very first _action - was to call me._
> 
> He did not know what to say to that, so as he had for these first couple of years, he said nothing. For his own peace of mind Sherlock had avoided talk of his erstwhile flatmate in those first couple of years. It was just easier for him that way. The fickle public for the most part leaves him alone. When his name occasionally appeared in the media due to a case, he was no longer automatically associated with John's. And while he still got work through John’s blog, with it going nearly three years now without updates, the private detective was mostly private again.
> 
> At least outside of 221B Baker Street anyway.
> 
> Three years later, the inside of 221B Baker Street still looked as though John would return from the clinic soon. Mrs. Hudson goes upstairs to dust what Sherlock still considers to be John’s bedroom. John’s laptop is still on the desk in the salon where he had used it last. Even the chair by the fireplace with the Union Jack pillow was still _John’s chair_ in Sherlock’s mind.

He put the phone down and went to shower. He felt he would go absolutely mad if he spent second more with the antiseptic hospital scent clinging to him. Especially when he was not the patient for once. He stayed in the shower a good long while. The hot water cascading over him, loosening the knots in his muscles. The familiar scents of his expensive shampoo and body gel slowly grounding him as bathed. When the water started cooling he turned the taps off, wrapping one towel around his lean form, using another to dry his hair, his ears still automatically pitched to locate John until he remembered John’s footfalls within the flat were a sound he likely would not be hearing ever again. One deep breath of self-annoyance later, he picks up his clothes, heads to his bedroom again.

One quick glance around the near spotless room, as he hung his trousers and blazer, told him what he already knew: Mrs. Hudson had come through cleaning. He tossed his shirt and pants unerringly into the hamper that mysteriously appeared one day, in silent reprimand, courtesy of his favorite _not your housekeeper_.  

Sherlock caught a flash of himself as he passed the full mirror of his armoire and stepped back. He took the towel from around his shoulders, tossing it into the hamper, immediately followed by the one wrapped around his waist. With a little smirk he retrieved the shirt from the hamper only to drop it on the floor just outside of it.

_Wouldn’t want you to feel unneeded Hudders._

He studied his body critically in the mirror. His face was fine, just the slightest tinge remained above his eye. No one outside of himself or Mycroft would notice. The eyes themselves clear, sectoral heterochromia giving his irises a steely grey appearance in the bedroom light. He needed to shave again, but he couldn’t be so bothered now.

_Perhaps in the morning._

He had healed from the burn, the skin on his right shoulder blade and upper right arm showed the evidence.

He flexes and stretches his muscles critically, testing the movement of his transport.

He grinned as he could suddenly hear the voice of one Doctor John Watson yelling at him: _This is your body, not TRANSPORT, Sherlock Holmes!_

_I really do need to treat my body better._

He ran his fingers through his tousled curls. His hair had been singed on one side as well and had to be trimmed over all to camouflage the damage. It was still shorter than he liked to wear it, but it was noticeably longer than the cut.

He was well aware others found him attractive and has used it to his advantage as needed, but he never saw it in himself, once admitting to Mary he felt he had a weird face. Mary, in all her classic bluntness readily agreed, but quickly added that it made his looks unique giving him that undefinable _thing_ that will last long after the looks of the classically handsome have faded.

_Ah, where are you now, Rosamund? I don’t have a tracker in a thumb drive for you anymore._

The last he had heard from Mycroft she was somewhere in the Ukraine. That was almost two months ago. He’ll text his brother for an update later.

His stomach rumbles and he tries to remember the last time he ate and realizes if he can’t remember exactly when, it was likely time his body needed some sustenance.

_Fine, I’ll go get something to eat, John. And what are YOU doing today?_

He pulls on stripped pyjamas bottoms, an old t-shirt and his dressing gown, then heads to the kitchen, flips on the light, starts the kettle and opens the refrigerator. He wrinkles his nose at the smell, but grins at the plastic wrapped severed head that greets him, pokes it in a couple of places, then turns to the table to make notes. Only when the kettle whistles, does he remember his original purpose was sustenance. He opens the refrigerator, looks in past the various experiments and closes it again surprised.

<>==========<>

“Are you ill?” Sherlock is at Mrs. Hudson’s door, his hand on her forehead.

“Young man it is nearly one in the morning!” She swatted his hand away with one hand, tightening the closure of her frilly dressing gown at her neck with the other.

“I was not aware of the time, sorry.” He blinked surprised to realize he really wasn’t.

“Are YOU ill?!” She looked up at him equally surprised.

“No, hungry.” He turned to head back upstairs.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!” Her voice thundered in the narrow hall.

He stopped short at that tone of voice.

_Oh, she used my FULL name, this time. What on earth did I do?_

“Yes, ma’am?” He put on his best contrite face and turned to her.

The woman took in a deep breath through her nose and expelled it through gritted teeth as she rolled her eyes to the heavens. She pushed her door open wider, “Get in here.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Forty-five minutes and a full plate of food later he was yet tucking into another of her infamous mince pies, twirling a wine stem in fingers.

“Sherlock, I do love you dear boy, but it is late. I’m an old lady with a bad hip who needs her beauty rest.” She barely suppressed a yawn.

“Nonsense! If you did not sleep for the next ten days you’d still have one up on some of these starlets being touted around as examples of beauty these days.” Sherlock sniffed. “But I only came to your door because my cupboards, but especially my refrigerator was bare.”

“I’m well aware of that young man. I keep telling you, _I’m not your housekeeper_.” She waved a finger at him. “And I’m telling you now 221A will NOT turn into your middle of the night restaurant.”

“So I take it, if I wish to continue to be the beneficiary of your fine culinary fare, I should clean the refrigerator?” He started to smile at her, but one look at her face stopped him. Something in her demeanor told him she meant every word.

“Joke if you wish, but for myself, I am tired, Sherlock. John never allowed the refrigerator to get that bad. He never allowed you to go so long without eating. Without getting rest. You were so much better with him, but two mountains cannot move. Time will eventually wear them both down to nothing and that would be a shame. One of you has to be Mohammed. Your habits are getting worse than before you two met. I know.” She stood and patted his arm before she picked up his empty plate and put it in the sink.

His eyes went wide in surprise.

[“Your habits are getting worse than before you two met.”]

_It was her. Oh God._

It was the anniversary of the day he truly lost John all those years ago. He had allowed himself to do that which he rarely did.

He allowed himself to _feel_ for him.

The anger. The sadness. The hate. The love. All of it.

And as the clock ticked to that hour approached he needed to shut his mind off from the turmoil of it all. He needed something. Anything. So he pulled out his 7% solution, only increased the percentage.

_Oh God._

He had thought he had heard her footsteps retreating down the stairs last month, as he was coming out from under, but he was still enough in he was not sure. The needle laying neatly on the side table by the tubing had _not_ been his doing, after all.

_Oh God!_

He knew then her taking the plate was less about cleaning up and more giving her a moment to shield her face from him.

To hide how much he’s hurting her.

_Oh God, Holmes, what are you doing?!_

Sherlock had not felt guilt at all, not even when he realized Mycroft had come by, taken the list and left without saying a word or leaving any other evidence of his having been there.

But this…? Her silent disappointment in him?

_This is untenable._

Sherlock put his head in his hands ashamed.

“Mrs. Husdon … I... It was…”

“It was the anniversary of when you died, I know dear. But that death was quick and sudden. To watch you slowly destroying yourself from the inside out, it’s killing me, Molly, Lestrade, even Mycroft to whatever degree that reptile feels, he does feel for you. If you’re going to live without him, Sherlock, then you need to learn how to _live_.” She put her hands on his shoulders and squeezed tenderly, bringing him to stand, “But for now, just go to bed will you?”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson.” he understood he was being dismissed, “And thank you.”

“I mean it, Sherlock. Go to bed.” She wagged a finger at him.

“I will, promise.” He kissed the top of the woman’s head sincerely.

<>==========<>

Sherlock promised to go to bed, not to go to sleep.

He sits on his bed, back against the headboard, his laptop is open to forensic reports, but his mind drifts…

[“One of you has to be Mohammed.”]

_Sorry to disappoint you yet again Hudders, but I think I’m going to remain the mountain for now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Adele “Someone Like You”
> 
> For those who may not remember _the list_ to which Sherlock refers, it is best explained here:  
>  _MYCROFT (angrily): Stop this. Just stop it. Did you make a list?_  
>  _SHERLOCK: Of what?_  
>  _MYCROFT: Everything, Sherlock. Everything you’ve taken._  
>  _(Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns his head away.)_  
>  _JOHN: No, it’s not that. He goes into a sort of trance. I’ve seen him do it._  
>  _(Sherlock takes a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket, holds it out and drops it onto the floor. Mycroft lifts his eyes to John, who bends down and picks it up. Mycroft looks away as John unfolds the piece of paper and looks at what’s written there, and his face fills with shock. He stares at Sherlock.)_  
>  _MYCROFT (his face turned away): We have an agreement, my brother and I, ever since that day._  
>  _(Sherlock bites his lip. In a cutaway flashback, a much younger Sherlock is lying on a mattress on a floor. Nearby, candles are burning in bottles. Sherlock is writhing and grimacing under the influence of the drugs he’s taken. Mycroft, apparently in his early/mid-twenties, is sitting on the mattress near his brother’s feet and now reaches down to a piece of paper lying next to Sherlock’s legs.)_  
>  _MYCROFT (voiceover): Wherever I find him ..._  
>  _(In the present, Sherlock closes his eyes._  
>  _In the past, Mycroft picks up the piece of paper and unfolds it to read it while his young brother continues to writhe in agony.)_  
>  _MYCROFT (voiceover): ... whatever back alley or doss house ..._  
>  _(In the present, Mycroft sinks back in his seat.)_  
>  _MYCROFT: ... there will always be a list._
> 
> Many thanks to Ariane Devere and her BBC’s _Sherlock_ transcripts. This comes from the special episode between Series 3 and 4, "[The Abominable Bride](https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/57859.html)".


	41. This Romeo Is Bleeding, But You Can’t See His Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft groaned knowing there were only two ways it could go and either were going cause problems.  
>  _Had it been anyone but Watson, ANYONE._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something a little different for the Big 40...

_Two years previous_

Mycroft has his briefcase in hand about to head out for a business lunch when Anthea paged him through the intercom.

“Yes, Anthea.”

“Sir? I’m coming in have, a seat.” Her clipped voice, held an odd note as she entered his office a moment later, her laptop in hand. “You are _not_ going to like this.”

Warned by her tone, he returned to his chair. She placed the laptop in front of him and pressed play.

The video opens on a semi-dark military tent, a group of soldiers gathered in a loose circle as two play guitar, one bass, the other lead. As it fades in a soldier is doing what Mycroft presumes is a passable job of singing something he at least recognizes is from a popular American band in the 90’s as the others cheer him on.

“Really Anthea?” He arches a brow at her.

“Really.” She points at the laptop for him to pay attention.

The singer messes up the lyrics and a familiar unseen voice laughingly corrects him. The videographer’s cell phone swings wildly during the good-natured back and forth ribbing about tastes in music when the bluff is called since he knows the lyrics so well. He tries to decline, but an incessant chant of his name brings him front and center as he finally accepts the challenge. John is in camos and a t-shirt, his new dog tags catching the partial light. His outer shirt is worn open and rolled up to the elbows, his face partially in shadow. The camera focuses on him as he nods to the guitarists who begin to play again. The first sounds that come out are rough to say the least. Mycroft flicks Anthea a look knowing there had to be more as the soldiers in the group initially snicker. As John goes on his voice improves and by the time he reaches the end of the first stanza Mycroft is as quietly entranced as the soldiers around John.

Mycroft leans back in his chair watching as John closes his eyes for a moment and forgets the world. When his eyes open again, you know he is not seeing anyone or anything around him. His voice is strong and sure now; but it is John’s face that sells it, the longing and open honesty, the partial shadow adding to the mood as his head lifts and his heart pours into the lyrics. There is no doubt he is singing the song for someone.

 _I'll be there, 'till the stars don't shine_  
_'Till the heavens burst and the words don't rhyme_  
_I know when I die you'll be on my mind_  
_And I'll love you, always_  
_Always_

When the song ends the unshed tears in John’s blue eyes glitter in the partial dark as he whispers an apology. Mycroft knows the apology is not for anyone in that tent. Only when applause and whistles break out does John become aware of his surroundings again and the flash of panic that he’s been recorded. The space falls silent for a moment as John excused himself and left. Whoever was filming it had slowly lowered their hand as John departed, but the audio was still clear. One last thing is heard before it cuts off.

“Christ, he’s got it bad.”

The video was simply titled “A Soldier’s Heart Break”. It posted several hours ago and already had nearly fifty thousand hits considering. It would certainly break 100k by nightfall. Mycroft watches again, fingers steepled beneath his nose and softly sighed knowing there were only two ways it could go and either were going cause problems.

_Had it been anyone else, but Watson, ANYONE._

“Social Media?” He asks.

“Trending on Twitter and Facebook. HuffPost U.S. have inquiries out trying to find the singer. HuffPost UK knows who, John has been in the news here before after all, but they are not stating who in print. I imagine they're trying to locate him and get confirmation or permission first.”

“I guarantee you Watson did not want this. He has to be mortified it was posted.”

“I agree, sir. Do you know if _he’s_ seen it?”

Mycroft is about to play it again when his phone pings with an incoming video call. Anthea can tell exactly who it is by her boss’ surprised raised brow even as he shows her the screen before answering.

_Not a text. Not a call. A video._

“Yes, brother mine?” Mycroft answers smoothly.

“I know you’ve seen it. Kill it.” Sherlock speaks, no preamble.

_Oh, he IS upset._

Anthea is watching Mycroft’s face as he gauges his younger brother’s mood and knows it is not good, not good at all.

“Don’t deduce me Mycroft! I cannot bear to deal with the questions you know it will bring to my door. Neither can he when they track him down and they will track him down. KILL IT!” Having said his piece, Sherlock signs off.

Instead of texting or calling Mycroft, the man who prefers to text because he barely tolerates speaking to people used video with him. His brother who would know that the stress in his voice alone told Mycroft everything that needed to be known concerning his state of mind used video with him. Mycroft stares at the now blank screen knowing Sherlock actually _wanted_ him to see.

Mycroft looks at his PA and nods. She takes her laptop, leaves Mycroft’s office and starts the process.

<>==========<>

Within a couple of hours –

 _In a minor government official’s office_ :

Mycroft presses refresh on several screens, sees the expected error messages, knows a confirmation will come in minutes and waits…

_In a consulting detective’s flat:_

Sherlock hits refresh on his laptop, nods, then finds the file downloaded to his USB and clicks play…

_In a soldier’s bunk:_

John hears when the complaints begin at the disappearance, knows exactly what happened, expecting that it would, and sighs…

All three men lean back and close their eyes gratefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and quoted lyrics from Bon Jovi “Always”


	42. Guess That's My Life Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Big Brother Mine, I am chuffed emphasizing GREATLY with Cain right now!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He picked up one of the pouches of fibers bagged in loose bunches by hue on the floor in front of it, immediately dropping it upon realizing its contents “…human…hair.”  
>  _How did she collect so much?_

_Two years previous…_

Greg and Sherlock stood at a wall in the gallery facing a blank canvas. They were investigating local galleries that recently ordered large custom sized canvas like what would have been used by the murderers.  It was their eighth gallery visit of the day. The scent of acrylics, oils and turpentine after four hours was starting to give Sherlock a headache.

Sherlock pulled on a glove and ran his hand lightly over a framed canvas of 122x122cm “This canvas is unprimed. And this is...” He picked up one of various hued short curly fibers bagged in loose bunches by color on the floor in front of it, immediately dropping it upon realizing its contents “…human…hair.”

_How did she collect so much?_

Greg frowned at Sherlock’s noticeable pause, about to question it when a smoke filled voice spoke.

“Yes, on both counts. Very good.” A sparkling purple sequined open ended turban, held up hunter roots with lime green tips. A loose orange linen tunic with candy apple red trousers, all of it as paint splattered as the bare foot woman herself, completed the ensemble. The current artist on the list came up behind the men. “And thank you for not potentially ruining the canvas with your bare hand.”

“Alexa Gee, Artist.” She gave a pleasant smile as Sherlock turned, “Ah, the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes; that explains how you knew not to touch it. I miss the hat, but I like the curls more.”

“I can tell, that’s quite the short and curly collection here.” Greg chuckled understanding Sherlock’s reaction, looked up from the bags on the floor. “Collected voluntarily I hope. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, New Scotland Yard.”

Her pleasant smile became a full on beam when Lestrade turned and faced her.

“Oh, but of course!” She held out her right hand to Greg, as though to be kissed. “And how may I help New Scotland Yard’s FINE-est?”

Greg shot Sherlock a dirty look at the detective’s less than silent snort as he gallantly found a dry spot and gallantly pressed lips to the woman’s knuckles.

“Ruin it, Ms. Gee?” Greg played along.

“Alexa Gee please.” She corrects him.

“Apologies, Alexa Gee. Ruin it, as in getting body oils on the raw canvas? As it could affect how whatever it is you are about to do?” He nods looking pointedly at the tufts of hair.

“Ooh, a silver fox, a copper and a smartie! Is he always like this?” Alexa turned to Sherlock offering her hand in the same manner.

Sherlock glanced at the appendage in a decisive manner, reached out gave it a single perfunctory shake as though it pained him to do that much even in his gloved hand. Alexa quickly withdrew it, wisely turning back to the more receptive Greg. “It’s an idea I’m working on: All natural, all RAW.”

“Oh could we please get on with this!” Sherlock rolled his eyes at the blatant flirting.

“Not with you youngster, let the grownups talk.” Alexa Gee takes Greg by the arm.

Greg winked over his shoulder at Sherlock, as they walk away.

“So Alexa Gee? Is it possible to peek in your back door and see where the magic happens?” Lestrade asked after a few minutes to get the investigation back on track.

“Well that’s a loaded question, no?” Alexa grinned as Greg winced.

 _Nicely done Lestrade._ Sherlock took some schadenfreude at Lestrade’s discomfiture as Alexa happily brought them to her studio behind the gallery.

Again Sherlock lets Lestrade lead the interview while he listens, only interrupting to extrapolate information as needed.

“So you build your own frames?” Lestrade notes Sherlock bent over pieces of a gilt frame.

“I have to considering the size of some pieces. It’s mostly crown molding cut to size. Occasional decorative pieces added.” Alexa nods showing Lestrade the case with decorative medallions. “Then stained, sprayed, gilded and or aged depending on the look desired for the work.”

Sherlock calls out a brand name and shade of the gold spray being used. Alexa Gee confirms impressed.

“Excellent spray work and aging.” Sherlock as throws her a brief fake smile.

“Thank you! It used to be my brother’s handiwork. He could be a damn good artist in his own right, perhaps better than me, had he the patience. Lucky for my career he does not. ” She runs her hand along a frame “This was about all I could get him to pay the proper attention to. That and to stretch my canvas for the really large pieces. He was meticulous with those. Regrettably, we had a falling out a few months back. Family stupidness we'll work out eventually. I hired some art students for these. ”

“Good quality duck canvas.” Sherlock had moved on to two large rolls of continuous canvas against a wall and pulls out his pocket magnifier to examine them. “Who is your supplier?”

“Rexall’s, sometimes Chathmen. I don’t think much of it. I place my custom orders as needed, but I admit, I’ve gone through a lot of canvas this round...” She frown slightly and shrugged, “It happens. Speaking of which, I need to get back to my acrylics over here before they completely dry out on me. Anything else?”

“No, I’m good. You need anything Sherlock?”

“Nope.” Sherlock pops the p at the end of the word, as he closed his magnifier.

They walk out through the gallery, Sherlock a few paces behind, when one of the paintings catches his attention.

_No…_

He stops in front of an abstract of navy and white triangles, black swirls, a bit of a houndstooth pattern and two pale aquamarine circles with black pinpoints, a drop of dark brown in one above the pinpoint. He reads the name plate “Baker Street”

_Oh dear God!_

A sold tag hung from it.

_Sold..? Who would purchase such monstrosity..? G. Orwell…_

He pinches the bridge of his nose and groans.

“Oh damn! There goes the surprise.” Alexa Gee pouted.

“Surprise?” Sherlock drew out the word through gritted teeth, turning to her.

“Mr. Orwell saw it in a catalog and purchased it through a blind auction. When he came to inspect it personally, he said I could hold on to it until the end of the show’s run in the fall, but he wanted to surprise you with it.” Alexa Gee walked over to him, “He looked so chuffed at being able to present this to you, right after the holidays he said.”

_Oh Big Brother Mine, I am chuffed emphasizing GREATLY with Cain right now!_

“That would be right around  …” Greg took one look at the painting, saw the perfectly neutral expression of Sherlock’s face fooling Alexa Gee, but not him and wisely decided to shut down the hard snort about to drop from his own lips at the thought of a _chuffed_ Mycroft Holmes presenting that to Sherlock for his birthday.

“So, Sally and Dimmock should be about done interviewing down the block. Let’s see if we can catch them. Compare notes.” He points a thumb towards the door instead.

Alexa Gee walks them out, clearly annoyed with herself for the ruined surprise “Oh, I have to think how to tell Mr. Orwell about this.”

“Gee Alexa, is thinking your strong suit? No? Then maybe you should not overtax yourself.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at the wire hanger logo in the showcase window and how conveniently Alexa Gee has managed to stand in front of her so her head is between her initials in the logo.

Donovan and Dimmock, exiting a gallery a few doors down, see Sherlock and Greg and walk over.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade looks up as Sherlock quickly turns back into the gallery, heading straight for the painting.  Alexa Gee followed him.  He peers at the painting; a slow smile turns up a corner of his lips as the pattern emerges.

“Camouflage?” Sherlock turned to the artist.

“Oh, you are good!” She beams “Mr. Orwell didn’t notice until after he bought it and I had to point it out to him. The detail did not show up in the catalog photo.”

_Camouflage. A barely recognized part of my life anymore, but a part of my life still, aren’t you doctor?_

“Nicely done.” Sherlock takes the Alexa Gee’s hand and shakes it in earnest. He glances at the nearly hidden jacquard technique in the painting depicting a military camouflage pattern chuckling to himself as he walked away, thinking of ways to get back at Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from N’ Sync “Gone”


	43. I Tend To Dream You When I’m Not Sleeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was unsigned, but the writer knew John would know the penmanship at once, which he had, his trembling fingers nearly dropping the box in the shock of recognizing it.

_Two years previous…_

**_SHERLOCK: This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?_ **

**_(John shakes his head, momentarily taking his phone from his ear as the stress of what he’s beginning to understand hits him, then he raises it again, his voice shaky.)_ **

**_JOHN: Leave a note when?_ **

**_SHERLOCK: Goodbye, John._ **

“John?”

**_JOHN (shaking his head): No. Don’t._ **

**_(Sherlock gazes down at his friend for several seconds, then he lowers his arm and drops the phone onto the roof, gazing ahead of himself. John lowers his own phone and screams upwards.)_ **

**_JOHN: No. SHERLOCK!_ **

“John!”

**_(Sherlock spreads his arms to either side and falls forward, plummeting towards the ground. John stares in utter horror.)_ **

**_JOHN: Sher..._ **

**_(A couple of seconds later the body impacts the ground. John’s hearing whites out as his entire body focuses on getting to Sherlock as soon as he can. Sherlock had disappeared from view towards the end of his fall because a building was in the way of John’s view of him, and John now runs to the corner of the building, then slows down and stops in the middle of the road when he gets his first glimpse of the still figure lying on the wet pavement, the lower part of his body obscured by a lorry parked at the roadside. Behind John, a young man on a fast pedal cycle slams into him and sends him crashing to the ground, his head hitting the asphalt hard. Groaning, he struggles to stay conscious while, nearby, people begin to run towards the body on the pavement. The lorry pulls away and a couple of medics from the hospital hurry out and start trying to prevent the onlookers from getting too close. Grimacing with pain, John rolls onto his side and looks across to the pavement where Sherlock is lying on his side with a lot of blood under his head. Slowly John hauls himself to his feet and stumbles towards him as more onlookers gather, talking excitedly about what they saw. John forces himself onwards.)_ **

**_JOHN (in a whisper): Sherlock, Sherlock ..._ **

**_(He reaches the crowd.)_ **

“Watson!”

**_JOHN: I’m a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please._ **

**_(Some of the crowd try to hold him back but he pushes through them.)_ **

**_JOHN: No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please._ **

**_(He reaches down to take hold of Sherlock’s wrist, searching for a pulse.)_ **

**_SHERLOCK (sits up from the ground, very much alive, but it is the bloodied faced Sherlock from Baker Street that was looking at a shocked John): It’s time to stop this!_ **

“CAPTAIN!”

**_A woman peels John’s fingers from Sherlock’s wrist, her facing morphing into Sherlock’s battered face from the fiery stairwell. John looks around to find himself in a sea of Sherlock faces, either from Baker Street or Tbilisi all echoing “Stop this!”_ **

John bolts upright, breathing rapidly, looking frantically around, not quite seeing anyone yet. He cocks his head to the side and listens...

“Where’s the music? There’s always music...”

“Music? What music?”

John whips his head around to the unexpected voice. Captain Ronnel Alfred braced for an attack.

_Alfred? Oh. Officer’s quarters. My room._

_Another nightmare._

_Just another fucking nightmare._

Ronnel visibly relaxed as John shook his head slowly forced himself to bring his breathing under control. John didn’t blame the man. Alfred got quite the wallop the first time he unthinkingly woke John out of a nightmare by grabbing him by the shoulders. John got quite the wallop in return when Alfred instinctively swung right back.

“Same one?” Ronnel pulled over the desk chair and sat.

“Variations on a theme.” John waved one hand idly, rubbing his face roughly with the other.

“I… I’m alright.” He laid his head on the crossed arms resting on his raised knees. He shuddered slightly as the vision of Sherlock’s battered faces faded away.

_Christ, these fucking nightmares are a fucking nightmare!_

He groaned to himself as he looked up into the concerned brown eyes of his fellow brother-in-arms. “Really. I am, thanks.”

“No, you’re not. You hadn’t had nightmares like this in months. This at least the third I know of since you’ve back from Tbilisi. For a second there I thought I was going to have to whip your arse again.” Ronnel rolled his shoulders, puffing up his body as he punched fist into palm. Along with the exaggeratingly squinted his eyes and the baring of his teeth - gleaming against his dark complexion- it gave him a comically menacing look.

John remembered the £50 he won watching the 168cm, 13 stone barrel of a man take down a 188cm 18 stone corporal in a rugby scrimmage. John gave it an honest 50/50 chance on how he’d fare in a knock down-drag out against the man, though he would never openly admit it.

“Yeah, in your dreams, Ronnel.” John welcomed the chuckle.

“Nah, in your nightmares, John. I mean – shite.” The _my bad_ clear on his face.

John half-snorted, swinging his feet out of the bed. “Go, I’m fine; sorry for waking you – again. And thanks – again.”

Ronnel eyed him, starting to speak, but changed his mind. He shrugged resigned, pushing the chair back to the desk and trudged back to his room, closing the door to John’s as he did, plunging the room back into semi-darkness.

_Sherlock._

John’s eye automatically glanced to the dark corner at the chair next to his desk. Too many nights after a coming down from a nightmare, John would open his eyes in the dark room, his imagination taking flight where he sees Sherlock sitting there. He always sits exactly the same way: in his opened Belstaff, adorned in his bespoke finest, right leg crossed over the left, index and thumb of his right hand supporting his head, his brow arched in that neutral, yet semi amused _idiot_ expression. Then there are the few seconds immediately following the vision where his heart clutches from the sheer force of _want_ – whether for him to reach out for Sherlock or for Sherlock to reach for him – before reality kicks in and the apparition disappears, but the feeling lingers long after.  

This was not one of those nights as he sighed at the empty chair.

[“This is at least the third I know of since you’ve back from Tbilisi.”]

This was his fifth nightmare in the three months since Tbilisi. Unlike his earlier bouts of PTSD, which unsurprising hardly reared its ugly head since he came back to the Army, these nightmares -equally unsurprising- have occurred since he left Baker Street. He’d relive a part of one of their cases, or part of some recent military action, but always, always it somehow segues into seeing Sherlock bloodied face before he wakes.

> Before it used to only be Sherlock’s battered face from Baker Street. A week after returning from Tbilisi the nightmares had changed to include the goateed face and sometimes brandishing a pistol about to shoot him. The first time it had the new Sherlock face John realized the truth. That it was the somehow the real Sherlock he had saved from the burning building. He was so stunned by the revelation he had pressed send on the text before he realized what he was doing.
> 
> _Goatee. I know it was him now. Need to know - the burns. Is he okay? – JW_
> 
> He had not used the number since Sahrain. He was surprised he remembered it all and had no idea whether it was still in operation. When he heard nothing for nearly an hour, he had not expected to hear anything at all.
> 
> _Watson, don’t be an idiot. Even being the bastard that he is, Mycroft would have told me if Sherlock were dead before it would hit the news. He has to be okay._
> 
> Thus it surprised him when he got a response.
> 
> _There will be permanent, but not much scarring on his right shoulder blade and upper right arm. Full recovery expected. Thank you for saving him. – MH_
> 
> _I did not know it was him at the time. I would have stayed if I had. – JW_
> 
> _I’ve read the reports. I know. I thank you nonetheless. – MH_
> 
> _Thank you for answering. – JW_
> 
> _I also know you still know his number. I will not tell him you asked. – MH_
> 
> _Thank you. – JW_
> 
> John had barely recalled calling Sherlock until Mary brought it up that last morning. If Mycroft knew John had called, then surely Sherlock knew. That also meant Sherlock had to know who rescued him from the building. Yet, the consulting detective had not responded or acknowledged it in any way that John was aware of.  Granted, neither had Mycroft until the text, but it was something. The silence from Sherlock Holmes in the little over three months since Tbilisi had said more than Watson could have ever imagined.

At least until two days ago.

John smiled in the dark as he remembered the question Ronnel asked moments ago, “Music? What music?”

A week or so after he moved in at Baker Street, he woke from a nightmare. Sherlock was playing his violin. It became the norm to wake from a nightmare and hearing Sherlock playing. At first it was different tunes, but after he’d been there for several months he realized he was hearing the same tune. It was such a mournful, yet beautiful piece of music, it relaxed him, he didn’t mind. Unless it was a really bad nightmare, that set him pacing about, he’d usually be lulled back asleep under the tranquil melody.

In those first couple of weeks after Sherlock’s death, he woke from a nightmare and the pain of the silence was too much. John went into the living room and had taken the violin out of its case just to touch it. He had it under his chin and had tried to swish the bow through the air in the way Sherlock often had when he was annoyed, usually at Mycroft. Not quite having the solid grip he thought, the bow went flying backwards in the upswing, knocking some of the sheet music from the stand behind him. Rapidly, but gently placing the instrument back in its case, he went to pick up the fallen music.  They were all original compositions by Sherlock. Stacking them neatly to return them to the stand, the pile nearly slips to the floor again when he spies a sheet titled “My Soldier’s Story”.

John had learned how to read sheet music in school, when he had a very temporary dream of learning to play guitar and being in a band. He had forgotten a bit, but remembered enough to piece out the notes. As he slowly hummed it to himself he realized it was the melody he heard when he woke from nightmares.  With trembling fingers, the music sheets made it back to the stand, with that piece on top. John understood then that he was not randomly noticing the same song tune. Sherlock had played that piece specifically for John. Specifically, to ease him from his nightmares.

_My Soldier’s Story._

_Not_ THE _Soldier’s Story… or_ A _Soldier’s Story…_

MY _Soldier’s story…_

He knew then Sherlock had composed the piece for John because he deduced its effects to calm him. It was one of the first times John understood completely that Sherlock had in fact loved him and it was too late. He moved out of Baker Street, met and eventually marrying Mary. John had not heard the melody in years except in memory.

After Sherlock's return,  he was meeting him at the flat to work a case. As he entered the foyer John caught the notes for the sad music Sherlock had composed during the Belgravia case for Irene Adler. He had not heard the untitled piece, which he and Mrs. Hudson dubbed _The Woman’s Tears,_ in a while. He stood in the foyer and listened until the detective became aware of his presence and switched to another tune.  John wondered if Sherlock ever played _My Soldier’s Story_ again in such nostalgia. John presumed he himself would never hear it again, then he received the package.

John rarely received mail, let alone a package. Opening the package and seeing the MP3 player box inside was enough to pique his interest. Opening it revealed a note: “I didn’t know, I am sorry” and a smiley face. It was unsigned, but the writer knew John would know the penmanship at once, which he had, his trembling fingers nearly dropping the box in the shock of recognizing it. He saw it had only one file downloaded to it. Plugging in the ear buds, pressing play and hearing those first few notes of _My Soldier's Story_  would have floored him were he not already seated. It was the melody he remembered, plus some new movements. The doctor smiled as he listened.

_The burns. They did not impact his ability to play the violin. Thank God._

Sherlock, being Sherlock had recorded exactly one hour, eighty-nine minutes and fifty-eight seconds of music, but it was the last two seconds of the ninety-minute recording that were most beautiful to the doctor. The tears that had welled in John’s eyes as he listened to the music, finally fell as Sherlock’s familiar smooth baritone simply uttered, “Hello John. Thank you.” And that said more than he could have ever imagined.  

He glanced at the chair in the corner again and sighed.

_Empty._

“You still know it’s your imagination, your wishing thinking, Watson. You haven’t totally cracked, that’s a bit good.” He whispered to the empty chair as he reached into his nightstand, pulled out the MP3 player, his fingers grazing the now framed note, laid back in his bed and pressed play.

_[It’s time to stop this!]_

He glanced at the wall that held his calendar, mentally calculating the days and a wake-up until he was next in London on leave.

_Maybe it is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from P.M. Dawn “Die Without You”
> 
> Thanks again to the wonderful Ariane Devere and her amazing transcript of BBC’s Sherlock, Series 3-Episode 3, [ _"The Reichenbach Fall"_](https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/21842.html)for providing the transcript for the opening of John’s nightmare.


	44. And I Can't Wait To Go Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Already in motion, Mycroft watches in horror as his driver and the shell casing that was in his hand fall, feeling the prick at his neck as he opens the front passenger side of the idling sedan.  
> He yanks out the tranquilizer dart as he dives in.

_Two years previous…_

Mycroft stood over Sherlock’s shoulder as his brother cycled through CCTV footage. Anthea is off to the side, on her mobile as always.

“Do you have any idea what it is you are looking for?”

“None whatsoever.” Sherlock admitted.

Another body had been found by workers near the railyard, the day before. Well, body parts to be specific. This one was in four frames. A woman’s head, from the eyebrows up with the hair arranged to be swooping over. Her feet from the ankles. Her left and right hands, each occupied their own framework. DNA confirmed it was the same woman, only the core of her body itself was missing. In addition, this was older than the others. They had found the earlier kill Sherlock had known was in existence.

They could see nothing connecting the victims: a well-known restaurateur, an investment banker and a flower delivery driver.

“Had it not been raining so much these past few days that the old railyard structure had started to cave, who knows how long before we would have found these last panels. As a result, the site was trampled all over as is. Forensics is going to have a devil of time sorting through that.” Lestrade sipped a coffee trying hard as always not to be impressed by the room with its myriad cameras looking at all of UK.

Well most of it, anyway.

“The killers are good. They seem to know these locations have no direct surveillance. You’re viewing footage as near to the locations as possible?” Anthea glanced at the current footage on display.

“Yes, see what we can find while forensics finishes up their data.” Greg nodded as he fast forwarded past a laundry service unload at a hotel two blocks from townhouse.

“It’s right here in front of me Mycroft. I know it is, but I cannot see it yet. It’s still too nebulous.” Sherlock displays a rare note of frustration watching various traffic as he gives new search parameters to queue up next.

“In chronological order it is the railyard, the abandoned townhouse and the back alley. It’s counting backwards in panels 4, 3 and 2. It’s been three weeks since the double set. Clocks ticking.” Mycroft stated snidely.

“Ya, we were completely unaware of that, thanks.” Greg said tetchily looking at a screen.

“Sir? You need to leave for 10 Downing.” Anthea looked up from her mobile.

“Yes, don’t you have a kingdom to blow up?” Sherlock smirked at Mycroft’s indignant brow to Lestrade’s comment.

“No, it’s bring down a regime, today. Blowing up Kingdoms are for – is it the third or fourth Thursday after a blue moon?” Anthea glanced at her boss for confirmation.

“Thank you for the reminder. It’s fourth Thursdays, my dear. Third Thursdays _before_ a blue moon are for dictatorship upheaval, but it’s a common mix-up.” Mycroft deadpanned as he turned and started to walk away, “I’ll go home from there. Can you stay here with my brother and see that he does not terrorize the staff, please?”

“You mean more than you already do?” Sherlock scoffed not bothering to look at up.

A slight huff of exasperated breath was the only hint Mycroft had heard his brother as he nonchalantly walked away.

“Sherlock!” Anthea chastised when Mycroft was past the door.

“Oh, as though you were not thinking the same.” Sherlock purred at her, “He can’t fire ME.”

“As you were, you two.” Anthea pointed at the screens. Lestrade winked at her all telling grin before all returned to the tasks at hand.

<>==========<>

_I should already be nicely ensconced in my home having a much needed scotch._

Mycroft glared at the shredded tire as though it had personally insulted him. In a way it had.

The front passenger side tire of Mycroft’s sedan had blown, forcing them to idle by the side of the motorway.  Edwin - his driver of more than a decade, had assessed the situation and informed him they were in one of those odd dead zones where even their equipment could not get a signal. The minor government official had already deduced as much when the connection dropped on the news program he was watching as they pulled over.  

Mycroft hung his jacket from hook in the back seat, closing the door. He sighed loosening his tie and the top button of his shirt, “Fine. Let’s just get this done already.”

“I’m sorry…?” Edwin stopped in the middle of removing his own jacket to look at the man in his charge as though he’d lost his mind.  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sir?”

“Even if we could call for another car for me, it would take at least another forty minutes in this traffic to arrive. This tire could be changed, and I in my home, in less time.” Mycroft replied as though it were obvious.

“Though it certainly would be worth the photo op to see you in your suit doing such mundane manual labor as to simply open the boot to hand me a lever, you are getting in the car, while I change the flat.” Edwin replied as evenly.

“You do remember I am _your_ boss, correct?” Mycroft narrowed amused eyes at the man. Both men looked up as they heard a vehicle approach, its wheels crunching the gravel of the shoulder.

_Oh, of all the goldfish!_

“Those who _clean the pants off crown and country_ have come to assist. Isn’t that nice?” Mycroft’s sarcasm was cutting as he started to reach for the rear door handle to open it. Edwin bent to pick up something that caught his eye.

“CEREUS! Get in th…!”

Edwin’s warning is cut off by a bullet.

Mycroft watches in horror as his driver and the shell casing that was in his hand fall, the minor government official already in motion feeling the prick at his neck as he opens the front passenger side of the idling sedan.

He yanks out the tranquilizer dart as he dives in.

Its effects start to kick in, already slowing him down as he starts to turn his body to crawl to the driver’s side. The tip of his fingers just grazed the edge of the panic button hidden under the dashboard when he felt a hand on his ankle pulling him away as the blackness took him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Ed Sheeran “Castle On The Hill”   
> Cereus – night blooming cacti flowers that are short lived. Used the same as Sherlock and John’s “Vatican Cameos” - meaning someone is about to die.


	45. The Silence Is Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Garrideb picks up a bone saw, for the first time in over a decade Mycroft is the beneficiary of that which he has so often instilled in others – fear.
> 
> Nathaniel Garrideb grins as he turns on the power, lowering it for the first cut…

_Two years previous…_

John looked at the familiar black door and slightly off kilter gold knocker with trepidation. Wait, was that a filled in bullet hole? John shook his head – no, he did _not_ want to know.

_Had it really been four years since I last step foot here?_

He knew that answer to that.

It was four years, almost to the month, that John had slammed this very door behind him and did not look back. Well, not much. He met up with Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper a few times when on leave. He had emailed or spoken to Mrs. Hudson a handful of times in the passing years as well. His last disappearance from her life after Sherlock’s fall had tempered him enough to at least give her that. However, at no point had John asked about _him_ , and somehow she implicitly understood not to volunteer any information. Still…

_What the hell am I doing here now?_

He knew the answer to that as well.

_I found my heart here and I shattered it here._

_Where the hell else would I ever be, if I had a choice?_

“Are you sure about this?” Harry had asked as she walked him to the door.

“As sure as I’m ever going to be. I’m the one fucked it up. I’m the one to try to fix it.” He gave her a one-armed hug with a lot more confidence than he felt.

“No after…” He started to say Tbilisi, but realized there’s a lot of his military life she’s never going to know about and this may be one of the for now “…after everything that has happened. This needs to be face-to-face.”

“Well, I’m rooting hard for you, little bro.” She smiled opening the door.

“Oh, since when? You hated my running all around with him.” He leaned against the door jamb.

“Because that teeny-tiny glimmer of a snowball’s hope in hell in your eyes means everything. And if you can begin to fix that cock up. It gives me hope for fixing things with Clara.” The same teeny-tiny glimmer shone in hers.

“We’re the Weird Watsons, what’s more determined than us?” He grinned.

“You’re stalling. Call me before you take off. Now go!” She pushed him out the door.

So from his sister’s door John now stood in front 221B; in front of the door he had slammed and walked away from nearly four years ago. That he’d been standing there for a solid five minutes, even with Mycroft’s black sedan parked a couple of doors down and he had not been shot that was a good sign.

 

 _God help me, here goes.._.

John gritted his teeth, raised his hand to grasp the knocker when the door suddenly swung open and he found himself looking at…

“Anthea?!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a plane back?” She blinks surprised.

That she knows he’s in London and when he goes back does not surprise him in the least, though it annoys him greatly.

“Not that it is any of your business.” He grits his teeth “I leave tonight.”

“What are you doing here then?” Anthea has a worried look in her eyes and John knows it is something bad.

“What’s wrong? Where’s Sherlock?”

“I don’t know,” She types frantically on her mobile. Normally as enigmatic as her boss, John has never seen Anthea this agitated.

_Christ! She’s scared!_

“Where’s Mycroft?”

Some of that fear starts to creep into him as he guesses the answer.

“I. Don’t. Know.”

“Why are you here at 221B then?”

“Because I did not want Sherlock to find out his brother is missing while in the streets, but he’s not answering his phone. I thought he was in one of his weird sleep modes where he’s just dead to the world until his body lets him up. If he’s up and about why is he not answering his fucking phone?!”

John blinked, he has never heard Anthea curse.

“Lestrade now.” He gently suggests.

The PA immediately speed dials the detective inspector and puts it on speaker.

“Anthea I’m busy wh…” Greg Lestrade’s gravelly voice answers.

“Holmes Sit-Level 003Alpha and Beta: Active” Anthea’s no nonsense voice cuts through.

“SHITE!” Greg’s breath explodes. John can already imagine him running his hand through his silver spikes in the two second it takes him to regroup, “Last location: Mycroft.”

“With you and Sherlock at HQ yesterday afternoon. Last location: Sherlock.”

“Took from off like a bat out of hell little over an hour ago. Does it all the time, didn’t think anything of it. Why are we on speaker?”

“Greg, it’s John, we’re at Baker Street. No, time to explain.” John cut in, “Anthea, I’m assuming you’ve already traced Mycroft’s sedan. Where is it? Have you traced Sherlock’s phone?”

“Yes, trace just started on Sherlock’s, nothing yet. Mycroft’s sedan was found an hour ago off the M11. Initial report looks like the tire was shot, forcing them off road. Edwin was shot, body found outside of car. Tranq dart found inside front seat.” Anthea’s calm voice trembles slightly on the next sentence. “Gilt frame found in back seat.”

“Oh God, no… They’ve got Mycroft.” Greg’s voice drops to a whisper.

“Sherlock’s figured it out, he’s gone after them?” John looks to Anthea.

“That’s what I’m thinking.” She nods signaling the sedan, “John, I’m taking you to NSY.”

“Why is Watson coming here?” You could hear Greg was walking somewhere quickly.

“I need him to look at what you’ve got. Look at whatever Sherlock was looking at before he took off.”

“Gotcha. You’re going to HQ?”

“Trust me Greg, you’re going to want me there to vouch for you if need help from the rest of them. If Mycroft Holmes can reach out to make contact, it’s going to be at HQ first. They know I’m one of the best at figuring out my boss’ thinking.” She tapped a code on the roof of the sedan, opening the door when she hears the lock disengage. She holds the door for John “And like it or not, Watson you’re likely our best shot at figuring out Sherlock’s.”

<>==========<>

Mycroft eyes open slowly to realize his neck was strapped to table, adjustable metal plates at side to limit head turning.

_Eyes covered, heavier than cloth. Not a blindfold._

He felt the nasal cannula, the cool feel of oxygen as he inhaled. He was attached to a portable tank. He was one of the luckier ones at his level. He had only been hospitalized twice due to serious injuries requiring oxygen. He knew the difference between a canister versus when it comes directly from the wall.

_Plaster of Paris? No rubber based. A mold of my face?_

He extended his awareness further to learn he was naked and further strapped to the table at the wrists, ankles, thighs and knees. He was completely immobile.

_Me. Captured. Naked. Ah, November ’82. Lovely form of intimidation, for goldfish anyway._

_Someone is creating a cast of my face._

_I wonder what they did with my suit. It was a favored one._

“I know you’re awake by now, you sonofabitch. I wanted you to be.”

_Someone’s out there. Oh hello._

Male middle-aged. English. East End. Not a foreign factor.

_Does not mean he is not working for one._

_Wanted me to be awake. Controls my consciousness. Anesthesia?_

He senses more than feels someone leaning over him as the oxygen cuts off and the cannula removed. Feels the lift, hears the pull against his skin as the cast is loosened, then removed from his body. He hears two sets of feet carry it away. There is whispering, but Mycroft cannot determine what is being said. There a sound of a door closing in the distance, before one set of footsteps run away, the other approaches him.

_Heavy set. Stuttered stride, has a limp._

Whatever lubricant used to ease the removal of the body cast stuck to his skin, began to irritate him greatly. He realized then the feeling is all over.

 _I’ve been shaved. Tender mercy that. A body cast was already done._ _How long have I been here?_

The plates and strap holding his head in place remain while the cast of his face is removed and eyes uncovered last.

Mycroft blinks in the light before slowly focusing.

_Humid. Water, pipes, plumbing - some kind of factory or plant._

_Basement. Deep. Likely blocking any tracker signal even if he accidentally set one off in the suit._

“Afghanistan: Second Lieutenant Dennis Scott: Kabul, Corporal Walter T. Easton: Kabul, Major Erin Margot Smith: Ghazni,… ” The same voice started speaking again reading from a list.

Somewhere about the eleventh name Mycroft realized he knew the voice.

_Eidetic memory has its advantages._

“Garrideb, Nathaniel. Erstwhile Major: Royal Army Medical Corps. Served six tours. Shrapnel in right leg obtained in Afghanistan firefight damaging muscles, rendering you no longer fit to serve Her Majesty’s Army. Invalided out.” He recited the facts in a monotone matching Garridebs as he shifted his eyes towards the voice.

The man had more gray hair, lines in his face and more portly than when he last saw the man, but it was Nathaniel Garrideb, without question.

“Good you remember.” Nathaniel nodded, then continued with his list.

Half dozen names later, Mycroft found the pattern: soldiers maimed or killed under missions ordered or controlled via the LASS in the past dozen years. As Nathaniel reached more recent dates, Mycroft recognized names from missions where Captain John Watson served previously before he knew the man personally and those of his current stint. Not all of them on official military records. Seven of them were not even in LASS’ official records. His mind raced through the connections. There were only two common denominators between all of them: himself and…

“Field Marshall George Davis Thorpe.” Mycroft sighed, more annoyed with himself than anything else. Anthea had showed him the report three years ago – Thorpe was Garrideb’s second cousin via marriage. LASS sources rumored he had become something of a loose lip, but nothing was concrete.

_Until now._

“You sent a flunky to buy us off when I was making noise about Howard. A very pretty flunky as I recall.” Nathaniel nodded his head in memory. “I don’t blame her though. I’m sure she was just following someone’s orders. Perhaps yours.”

_Anthea._

She was relatively new to his service then. It was one of the first assignments he gave her as an agent in her own right. “Nathaniel Garrideb is becoming a nuisance. Get him to stop.” She had, and the Garridebs profited nicely from it.

“I stopped, but I did not forget. It took me years to figure out who pulled the real strings. Thorpe marrying into the family was a stroke of luck. Took a couple of years, but little by little I made the connections. All those soldiers. And they all connect to you!”

“We are in a war! Some soldiers get maimed. Some do not come back as mentally whole as they went in. Some soldiers die. Some are executed more than we like to admit. It is accepted with the job descriptions. They know this when they sign on - whatever their reasons.” Mycroft mentally winced realizing he had partially quoted Sherlock.

“Bollocks! My son was fine until your mechanisms caused the conflict where he lost his mind. That boy ain’t been right since!” Nathaniel yelled.

“I contend that boy was not right before hand. Many soldiers go in green and return from such missions without killing half their team. You listed the names of my sins. I did not hear you list the names of your son’s.” Mycroft countered. “Every such mission has one green soldier, how else do one gain experience? Your son was on that mission because his name was next on the list to be called. I read the reports of the eye witnesses, Garrideb. It was a six hour standoff. There were eight soldiers on that mission. Only one man, Corporal Eugene Kirkpatrick was hurt, but expected to recover. He moaned in pain when he shifted position in his sleep. It woke Howard and he snapped. Out of eight men only three, other than your brother, made it back alive. He had taken out four of his own before Watson could tranquilize him. Do you know what it is like having to face the family of the fallen and lie to their faces, because it is easier than explaining friendly fire? Easier than explaining that one of the men who should have their back, shot them in it instead? The politics of what started the skirmish are irrelevant.”

“Oh no. You have been the puppet master, pulling strings with other people’s lives. All those soldiers dead or maimed because of you! It seems only fair you get a taste of what it feels like for someone to pull yours.” Nathaniel used his foot to pump a lever that brought the head of the table Mycroft lay on up to a semi recline. “Your chickens have come home to roost at last, Holmes.”

Mycroft could see more of the room. He was in a makeshift operating theater.

Scalpels, oscillating tip saw, waste management and other surgical equipment surrounded the table.

Those were not what held Mycroft’s attention.

Along the walls were drawings of the murders. A storyboard, blue print and detailed schematics of each murder beautifully rendered, along with photos of the finished products. There was a massive glass door commercial refrigerator with various body parts.

Those were not what held Mycroft’s attention.

Just past the room were remnants of a canvas roll, long slats of crown and base molding and cans of gold paint. The front

Those were not what held Mycroft’s attention.

Past the frame remnants was a beveled block pedestal with four upright columns, galvanized steel cables of varying lengths with hooks on the ends dangled from a wood X suspended from the top of the enclosure. It had the effect of looking at an empty box once the purchased figurine was removed. Providing that the figurine was six feet tall.

[“It’s counting backwards in panels 4, 3 and 2. It’s been three weeks since the double set. Clocks ticking.”]

What holds his attention is the beautiful calligraphy on the pedestal as he sees the clock has stopped ticking.

Mycroft Holmes realizes the next featured macabre art work of the Garridebs was going to be Mycroft Holmes.

“Sometimes field surgery is performed without the benefit of waiting for an anesthetic to kick in first, but most soldiers who are need of such are generally in such pain they don’t see it coming…” Nathaniel Garrideb puts down the list and lowers Mycroft back to a horizontal position, “…Happily for me, your anesthesia has worn off and you will see it coming.”

As Garrideb picks up a bone saw, for the first time in over a decade Mycroft is the beneficiary of that which he has so often instilled in others – fear.

Nathaniel Garrideb grins as he turns on the power, lowering it for the first cut…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Brenda Russell “Piano In The Dark” 
> 
> LASS = Love. Antarctica. Static. Seal. The core of the Ultra status members code names first mentioned in Chapter 19. 
> 
> Yes, the antagonists’ surnames come from “The Three Garridebs”. Having fun dipping into the original material when I can.


	46. Every Single One's Got A Story To Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg had tried to warn him on the walk from his office to this conference room. He is a doctor, an experienced combat doctor at that. He has been wrist deep in a soldier’s bowels, how bad could it be?
> 
> Then Greg opened the door and John walked into the room.

_Two years previous…_

Greg had tried to warn him on the walk from his office to this conference room. He is a doctor, an experienced combat doctor at that. He has been wrist deep in a soldier’s bowels, how bad could it be?

Then Greg opened the door and John walked into the room.

John had reached out to a chair for standing support, but slipped into the seat instead, his mouth agape as he looked around at the collected evidence. Years of working with Sherlock, Greg and others in New Scotland Yard he knew there were details kept from the public, but this…?

“Christ…” He whispered at last in equal parts awed and appalled by the sight.

“Yeah.” Greg agreed solemnly. “I know you need a moment to adjust, but…”

“Yeah, right.” John nodded twice, closed his eyes and took a breath then opened them. Lestrade blinked at the marked difference in the gobsmacked man that nearly fell into the seat a moment ago and the collected man that now rose from it, walking straight to the center wall with a single decisive nod. “Right.”

Three murders on three walls:

Rachel Fowler an investment banker, the triptych found in the abandoned townhouse.

Armand Jules a well-known restaurateur, the double frames, found in an alley.

Terri-Ann Whitfield a flower delivery driver, the set of four, found in the railyard.

The actual bodies were in storage. Full-sized printouts of each “artwork” were pinned with the reports on the table.

About forty minutes of questions and answers later, Watson sniffs amused.

“What is it?” Greg looks over from the restaurateur’s wall.

“Nothing.” He waved it off, “You’ve got the _Dirty Soldier_ on all three boards.”

“What’s a Dirty Soldier?”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that.” Sally, on semi-desk duty due to a sprained ankle, rolled over in her chair to where John was standing and smiled spotting the image. “Greg come. This picture shows it better, look here at the side of that van, what do you see?”

Greg looks at the image of the white van at first confused, but then he chuckles. “Is that a naked soldier?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Sally grins rolling from the banker’s wall to the restaurateur’s. “You almost miss him here because the blue van is half out of the picture.”

Greg walks over to the driver’s and now that he knows what he’s looking for spots it immediately on a red van.

“I only remember because I pointed it out to Sherlock once. Because it’s color on color like a jacquard you don’t really notice him when the vans are clean. But when they get dirty, especially with the white van, his _attire_ becomes very noticeable. How said that was Alex’s joke because of the slogan.” John muses studying the photos of Terri-Ann Whitfield.

“How? Alex? Joke? Slogan?” Anthea’s voice came in loud over the speakers from the computer across the room. She had tapped into the security camera for the room and was on a secured channel listening in. She had muted her side of the channel. It had been silent for a while all three had forgotten her audio visual presence until she spoke.

Donovan startled, but recovered smoothly with a sheepish grin at John who caught it. “Ya: _We clean the pants off Crown and Country.”_

“Oh, Garrideb’s Laundry and Dry Cleaning Services.” You could hear Anthea typing away. “I remember seeing one of their trucks on the screen when you and Sherlock were here yesterday.”

“Yeah, Howard Garrideb, young kid in my unit during my first Army run.” John grimaced. “Had no business being out there.”

“Was that…?” Anthea paused remembering who was around, “The Catacombs?”

John flicked his eyes at the computer screen, saw Anthea’s neutral expression, but unlike her boss, she had not fully mastered emotionless eyes. It was a bad mission and he knew that she knew just how bad.

“I understood he was sectioned out.” John nodded once.

Greg saw the looks exchanged and raised a brow to John who shook his head once in the negative. He was not going to talk about it. He turned back to the walls.

“I remember the name. I was a sergeant then, months before I became DI. The father, Nathaniel was an army man too, invalided out. He was rather vocal on blaming the government for Howard’s condition.” Greg went to another computer and pulled up a file.

“Wasn’t Garrideb arrested a few times?” Donavan nodded seeing the faces, “He went silent. We just figured the fight went out of him… John..?”

John had been crouched down in front Jules’ pictures. He held up a hand and crab-stepped over from the Jules wall to Whitfield’s.

“What are you seeing, John?”

“Donovan, shut-up! You’re putting me off!” John snapped crossly, now crouching down near Fowler.

“Who does he think…?” Sally began.

“Sally, shhh!” Greg shook his head in déjà vu, putting finger to lip to silence the sergeant as he tried to follow what John was doing. He could hear Anthea ordering someone on her side to get her everything on the Garridebs.

“White on white. Blue on blue. Photos can muddle details…” John mumbled as he crouched down by Whitfield’s again.

“I need more data. I need access to the original frames! Where are they?” John stood up suddenly gesticulating wildly, spinning in place as though completely confused as to why the frames are not already in front of him.

Sally softly gasped in understanding, looking to her partner “He don’t even realize he’s doing it, does he?”

“They’re at St. Bart’s in cold storage, what is it?” Greg shook his head in response to Sally as he answered John, crouching down in front of Whitfield’s photo evidence.

“Get Forensics at Bartholomew on the line. We need someone with a live feed to go over the evidence there.” Anthea ordered.

“Get Molly Hooper, she’s smart and is someone else who can sometimes fathom out that idiot genius’ mind.” John called out to Anthea while flipping through a report.

“Hi Greg.” Fifteen minutes later Molly Hooper was in cold storage, her smiling face displayed through a tablet. “Hi John! What are doing…?”

“No time. Sherlock and Mycroft are missing.” John leaned on the desk at the computer with the camera.

“Missing? Sherlock only left here twenty minutes ago.” The smile left quickly, “What do you need?”

“What?!” Greg and John yelled at the same time, John turned to Greg adding “No one checked with Molly?”

“Sherlock wasn’t here when Greg called. I told Sherlock when he got here – oh no!” Molly’s eyes went wide.

“What Molly?” Greg pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Sherlock’s mobile was dead. It charges faster when off, but I just realized it’s still upstairs in the lab. He took off without it.”

Both Greg and John let loose a string of curses.

“Molly what did Sherlock want?” Anthea gritted her teeth annoyed.

“The same as John, to look at the frames again.”

[“Watson you’re likely our best shot at figuring out Sherlock’s”]

John spared Anthea a knowing look, before turning back to Molly.

“Let’s start with Armand Jules. Back view. Flip your camera view and run it over the panel just below the right ankle.” John grabbed a pen walked over to the Jules’ wall, crouched down and looked over his shoulder at the screen.

“Molly stop.” Greg squints at the screen “Your contrast is too high. Can you lower it a bit?”

“Sure Greg, one moment.” Molly flips the pad over to do so.

“Anthea?” John raises his voice to be heard.

“Yes, John?”

“I need samples of Alex Garrideb’s art signature.”

“On it.”

John’s lip starts to twitch. An all too familiar feeling, one he has not felt in a nearly four years begins, to course through him.

“John what is it?” Sally asks.

“The universe is never that lazy.” He says with a little smile.

“Coincidence?” Molly has the camera focused on the panel once more, “No such thing according to the Holmes brothers.”

“Exactly.” He watched the camera movements again.

“There!” Greg and John called out at the same time stopping Molly.

“I don’t see anyth…. Oh!” Molly’s fingers come into view as she lightly touches the panel. “Something is there!”

“Molly, take pictures from different heights, angles, flash, no flash. Send them to Greg.” John circled the area on the picture in front of him, the moved over to Fowler’s evidence. “After that go to Fowler center panel.”

“If one of them is an artist. Building those frames would be easy then.” Donovan looks at the frames in the photos. “Wasn’t Nathaniel was a former Army doc himself…?”

“What are you saying Sal?” Greg glanced at her as she looked at John.

“Yes, Sally. I could do that type of work if needed,” John sighed “Which means he certainly can with the right space and equipment where he can build these things and not be disturbed. Uses the company van to transport this from site to site.”

“Ya, they could see where there are cameras during his laundry work and know where to avoid them.” Sally nodded “Two of them could hang these. Three would be better, but evidence only show the two sets of prints.”

Greg’s phone pings, just as Molly announces the photos were sent.

“Forwarding them to you, Anthea.” Greg opens the email on the computer so all can view.

“John here you go.” Anthea displayed a picture of a signed check.

The signature is reminiscent of a clothes hanger with the initials AG inside.

“I know that. That’s Alexa Gee’s signature. Sherlock and I interviewed her. God damn, I’m an idiot! Alex is Alexa Garrideb, the hanger is a nod to the family business. Her studio is the right size, but too clean for this.” Greg slams his fist on the desk in frustration.

“Then Howard Garrideb is her brother, born the same year seven months apart. Howard was a preemie.” Anthea nods. “According to sources she’s been estranged from her father these past few years. Only speaks to Howard sporadically. They have their laundry facility in the old bell foundry. The size and privacy is right. ”

John’s eyes go wide as Molly’s photos show on the screen.

A shadowy white on white, but Greg zoomed the photo and then played with the brightness and contrast.

“Oh God!” Donovan points at the initials that dangle outside the hanger. “M.H.”

“Outside the hanger? What, they’re going to hang him?” Greg looks to Donovan, “Sally, I need an address on their laundry facility. Start getting me back up. John: with me.”

“Why John?” Donovan rolls in her chair to the computer.

“Because he’s coming anyway and you know it.” Greg is heading fast out the door, John on his heels.

“And he says it’s never twins. Oh, sorry!” Molly’s voice is heard as they leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from The White Stripes "7 Nation Army" ”


	47. Like A Soul Without A Mind, A Body Without A Heart, I’m Missing Every Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John yanked Howard Garrideb from the floor by the throat with one hand quickly about to be joined by the other, beyond caring whatever extra pain he caused the man. The Hippocratic Oath had no place here. The feel of his long fingers slowly circling Howard’s throat was almost erotic as his thumb sank into the hollow spot feeling death.

_Two years previous_

Business hours were over, the last of the workers had left and all three vans were parked in the gates for the day. Only one personal sedan was still in the lot.

_Someone is home._

Sherlock chastised himself yet again for his mobile left in Molly’s lab as he easily picked the lock and entered through the rear of Garrideb’s Laundry and Dry Cleaning facility.

_Always something, Holmes. I might be human after all._

_Oh, perish the thought!_

He reached inside the lining of his coat behind the extra button and squeezed the flat metal discs of the tracer back into place, glanced around the three story building. Mostly open to all three stories only the front had two levels where the actual laundering part of the business was maintained. Various cat walks above for circling around the massive bells that once were made here. He left himself a mental note to look up the history of the building when he had a moment. He found the office and was about to head towards the basement when heard rapidly approaching footsteps that stopped before they reached the door. A male voice was heard on a call on his mobile.

Sherlock stood off to the side of the door and listened.

“…your dad as much as mine… I told you I’m sorry damn, Al… Why don’t you believe me? Yes, I took some of your canvas - you can afford it. What? I thought you’d be happy I’m doing art again… Come see this installation… He's - I mean - it’s the best thing I’ve done.”

_Ah, this would be Howard. The other artist, working on an installation._

With a sickened feeling Sherlock realized this _installation_ meant there was another victim. 4, 3, 2 - the final piece.

“Just come by the laundry...” Howard opened the door, crossed the threshold into the main facility and saw Sherlock.

“YOU BITCH! YOU CALLED THAT DECTECTIVE?! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

Howard took off running. He ducked as Sherlock attempted to grab him, but not before Sherlock noticed the flash of gold on one of his fingers.

>  “I’ve always wanted to ask you, Mycroft – what’s with the ring?” John came in from the mart to find the brothers faced off across the game table one bored afternoon.
> 
> “To keep unwanted suitors at bay of course.” Mycroft dropped a black disc.
> 
> “You? Suitors? You have suitors?” John paused in his unpacking of the groceries to peek at the elder Holmes to see if he were in fact serious. "Someone tries to crack the Iceman?”
> 
> Sherlock snorted. Mycroft did not so much as glance at John to dignify that with a response.
> 
> “Yes, but why do you continue to wear that ridiculous thing? Surely by now, your reputation proceeds you so that the office lovelorn would know better.” Sherlock dropped a red disc.
> 
> “Not all the potential suitors are from the office.” Mycroft sighed as though he were suffering through the inquisition and dropped another black disc into position.
> 
> “But it’s on your right hand.” John watched the game play for a moment, then shook his head highly amused at the sight before he returned to the kitchen.
> 
> “Not all married people wear their wedding ring on the left hand and not all suitors are unwanted.” Mycroft shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly. “One does what one must for Crown and Country.”
> 
> A crash of something in a glass container hit the floor, immediately followed by a string of curses was heard from the kitchen.
> 
> “Do. Stop.” Sherlock scrunched up his face at his brother's amused brow as he dropped another red disc.
> 
> “Very well then. ConnectFour- diagonal.” Mycroft dropped a final black disc that indicated his win before he pressed the lever to end the game.

To the naked eye, it is a simple gold band. Sherlock long ago observed the striations that made this ring unique from the rest which each member of LASS wore. Sherlock knew it belonged on only one finger and that finger was not Howard Garrideb’s.

“WHERE IS MY BROTHER?!”

<>==========<>

Lestrade organized his people and entered the parking lot as a call came in from Anthea. The PA had met them there and waited in a sedan just outside.

“Greg, Sherlock is somewhere in the building.”

“Are you sure?” Lestrade pulled into the lot and parked, along with a few other metro policemen.

“Yes, his tracer activated minutes ago. It goes in and out, but Sherlock is definitely in the building.” Anthea confirmed.

“Idiot must have just thought to activate it since he does not have his mobile.” John looked to Greg, “Nothing on Mycroft?”

“Nothing.” Anthea’s succinctness was unsettling.

“We’ll find hi…” Greg and John exchanged a look at the sound of running.

“You heard that too, then?” Greg looked around the sound the echoed in the building. A familiar flutter of a coat caught John’s peripheral view and made him look up.

“Oh my God! Is he insane?” Greg looked up as well, Sherlock’s unmistakable Belstaff floated open behind him cape-like as he pursued someone.

"That's Howard Garrideb." John pointed at the other man. His head whipped around at a different sound. One that he is all too familiar with, yet never wants to hear.

“What the hell? John! Where are you going?” Greg called out to John as he headed away.

“Get him down!” John yelled over his shoulder and drew the Browning Anthea had sent to him. He saw the door to the basement and took off for it on instinct alone.

He knew before he opened the door to the basement his instincts were correct as a man’s scream pierced the stairwell.

_Christ!_

The whine of the machine was barely heard over the scream of the man it was being used on.

 _Oh Christ!_ _Oh Christ!_   _Oh Christ!_   _Oh Christ!_  

The words became a mantra in his mind as each steps he descended only confirms what he already knew and sickened him to the core. If he thought the pictures in New Scotland Yard disturbed him, they were nothing compared to the tableau that opened before him: a naked Mycroft Holmes screaming as his body writhed under the restraints as Nathaniel Garrideb methodically sawed through Mycroft’s shin, John's doctor’s ears heard the sound as bone separated, saw the splatter as though he himself held the instrument.

_Oh my God, Mycroft's awake!_

“Garrideb! Put down that saw and back away from him!” John yelled to be heard over Mycroft. Nathaniel instinctively raised the saw, turned it off as he looked up at the unexpected voice.

“Captain Watson. From what I hear, I would think you would to join in.” Nathaniel Garrideb was completely calm. 

“My issues with Mycroft Holmes are my own. Step away from him.” Watson slowly approached the makeshift theater. Mycroft screamed had lowered to a steady whimper, but John was pretty sure Mycroft was unaware of his appearance.

Nathaniel turned the saw towards Mycroft and powered it on again. “Don’t come any closer, Watson.”

“I took down your son, Nathaniel.” John pointed the Glock at him. “Don’t make me take you down. It won’t be with a tranquilizer.”

“John we both know there's no coming out of this for me.”

Nathaniel lowered the saw.

Watson shot.

Mycroft screamed as the shot bounced the saw out of Nathaniel’s hand and hit his shoulder before it clattered to the floor.

Nathaniel picked up a scalpel. Watson knew the way Garrideb gripped it what he was going to do and shot again as Garrideb lifted his hand. John barely leaned sideways out of the way in time to avoid being impaled by the thrown sharp.

The doctor is in motion to Mycroft’s side as Nathaniel Garrideb fell backwards, a bloom of red appeared dead center of his chest. Watson's memory flashed to when he saw a similar wound oh Sherlock, but where Sherlock lived, he knew, Nathaniel Garrideb got his wish.

Watson quickly triaged the situation. _LEA. Transtibial._ _Proximal._ _Non transfemoral._ _Myodesis possible?_

The makeshift operating theater was designed to take lives, not save them. There was nothing of use in his visual scan. Watson quickly pulled off his own belt as tourniquet to slow the bleeding. 

 He pulled out his mobile to call for the ambulance Anthea wisely had at the ready before he realized he could not get a signal.

“SHITE!”

“Mycroft, I can’t call from here, I have to go up and ge… shite.” It’s only then that John realized how quiet the room is. The elder Holmes brother has mercifully passed out, unmercifully John knows it is from shock.

He ensured Nathaniel Garrideb was dead before he ran for the stairs.

<>==========<>

Sherlock chased Howard Garrideb to the upper levels of the former foundry. Then ran across a couple of shaky catwalks in the process. Sherlock guessed it had been Howard’s intention to escape from the roof.

[“You can put back anything but dust.”]

[“Dust is eloquent.”]

Judging the path, they made in the dust and grime, no one had been this high up in very a long time. The door was padlocked and Howard did not have a key. The only way down now was past Sherlock. Somewhere a door opened and closed, footsteps of at least two people had entered the building. Someone gave orders.

_Lestrade?!_

Sherlock held his arms out to Howard Garrideb, tried very hard not to think of how high they were. It was not necessarily a lethal drop, but things were definitely going to break if one or the other of them fell.

“Look at you. You had no business being in the Army. It was your father’s dream when he invalided out. Shoved all the thoughts in your head. The dreams to fight to were not yours, but dutiful sun when went anyway and look how that turned out. First skirmish you get into your mind cannot take it. In your desperation to get away from everything you kill four of your own men before John Watson could take you down. You were never soldier material. You should have been an artist, like your sister” Sherlock glared at the man.

_This has to end quickly._

Even if Howard Garrideb somehow killed him, Sherlock knew it would be a short lived victory for Howard would be a dead man within minutes of Mycroft finding out"

_Or Watson, were he here._

Sherlock had absolutely no doubt Watson would kill over him, even now. Because Sherlock knew he would kill over Watson were the situation reversed, even now.

“Alexa has spent hours talking about your eyes. I will leave them to be found in her studio as a present. Little bitch thinks she’s too good to be around us.”

Howard stood less than five feet in front of him and grinned sure of the upper hand.

_I’ve seen images of demons with less deadly grins._

“Can’t say that I blame her. I’ve met her. The sanest one of the three of you, but it is such a LOW threshold as to be moot. Clean the pants off Crown and Country. Even she knows all you are good for is cleaning every one’s shit.” Sherlock snorted disdainfully.

_If he isn’t smart enough to not let himself get goaded, it does not behoove me to stop him._

Sherlock lowered into a fighting stance, his hands up, but not completely closed into fists. The consulting detective purposely pissed Howard off because he knew an angry fighter was a stupid fighter. Garrideb may be an out of shape ex-military man, but he was still an ex-military man.

_Careful, Holmes, Norbury._

Howard drew a gun.

_And okaaaay…_

“It’s been a few years, are you sure about this, Howie?”

Sherlock still had not lowered his arms. The muzzle of Howard's gun was less than two feet from his face, he grinned. Howard glared at Sherlock baffled and did exactly the consulting detective expected of him – he got mad.

“You think I won’t?” Howard challenged, he nearly screamed.

_Right, most Howards hate being called Howie upon adulthood._

Their eyes never left each other and Sherlock’s smile only broadened.

Howard, pulled the trigger and . . . nothing.

In his anger the ex-military man forgot the safety was on. Sherlock dropped kicked him and then kicked the gun out of the way. Howard was confused for only a second before realized his mistake and recovered quickly. Sherlock swung at him with the intention of giving up a left upper cut when a grinning Howard slashed at his arm.

_What. The. Hell?_

Sherlock’s coat sleeve was the only that kept him from be cut deeper, but he was cut.

_Where did that come from?_

The blade itself was about ten inches long. One side was razor sharp, the other side serrated. Not just serrated, but it edges curved inward like hooks. Sherlock glanced at the slash in his coat sleeve.

_Damn! I like this coat!_

Howard had the demon grin again.

Sherlock's arm stung, but he could not afford to check it.

 _No, focus Holmes, you know the second you take your eyes from Howard you’re dead and all Mycroft would be able to do is avenge you._  

“Holmes, I respect you. That he’s your brother. My father tells me you’ve been on missions - you do what you have to do. I’ve got to do what I have to on this one and put him down - permanently.” Howard’s voice suddenly dropped. “If I’ve got to go through you - I will.”

“This is not a mission Howard.” Sherlock braced himself “This is vengeance!”

Somewhere, Sherlock heard Lestrade order Howard to drop the blade.  

_I did hear Lestrade!_

Sherlock knew it was coming, saw it coming and but the impact itself as Howard charged him was a different thing. He could tell Howard had expected him to swing sideways so Sherlock dropped down to the floor. Howard was committed to his forward motion, and the blade went way over Sherlock’s head. He grabbed the blade hand on the way up and twisted Howard’s wrist. Howard and Sherlock slammed into the guard rail from the momentum. With a lurch that sickened, both men saw the panic in the other man’s eyes as they both felt handrail gave against their weight and they were fell…

Sherlock heard someone scream his name before he felt the impact.

_John!_

<>==========<>

Watson had reached the main level when he got the connection, but it was cutting in and out. He opened the door to the main facility, heard as Lestrade yelled at Howard  and looked up...

Watson stood in horror as for the second in his life he helplessly watched Sherlock’s airborne body plummet.

“SHERLOCK!”

The sound of Sherlock’s body as it crashed hard into the grating of the catwalk up above him made him wish he had Sherlock ability to delete memories for he feared it was going to be one of the things he would hear for the rest of his life. The echo of Watson’s scream of Sherlock’s name ran Lestrade’s blood cold as he reached the level and spied Sherlock’s inert body on the catwalk.

Watson dropped to his knees.

_Oh God! Sherlock! Oh God!_

He gritted his teeth, vision blurred, unable to look up at the still body of Sherlock Holmes above him.

It took a moment for Watson to realized the sound he heard over his own scream was that Howard Garrideb’s body as it landed with a thud near him and the man cried out in pain.

A frenzy of blackness flooded Watson’s soul as it registered the man next to him still moved when the man above him did not.

Lestrade on his knees next to Sherlock who moaned weakly from the impact, screamed out over the railing. He looked down on the specter of John Watson that moved towards Howard Garrideb, knowing what was about to happen.

“JOHN! HE’S ALIVE! I’VE GOT HIM! SHERLOCK’S ALIVE! JOHN!”

John had yanked Howard Garrideb from the floor by the throat with one hand, quickly about to be joined with the other, not caring whatever extra pain he caused the man.  The Hippocratic Oath had no place here. The feel of his fingers that slowly circled Howard’s throat felt almost erotic as his thumb sank into the hollow spot felt the impending death. Lestrade’s words barely, BARELY filtered through the rage that roiled and heartache that pounded within him.

"If you had killed him, you would NOT have got out of this room alive!"

Garrideb was stunned into momentary silence, saw nothing but death in Watson’s eyes, his voice thick with lethal intent. 

“Why?! You hate Mycroft Holmes as much as I do!” Howard choked out painfully, bewildered as to why he still breathed on this earth.

“I’m not talking about Mycroft Holmes!” John raged in Howard’s face.

It physically hurt Watson to unclamp his fingers – still locked in their deadly grip knowing their job was not finished. Watson let the screaming man drop to the floor as he ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Hooverphonic “Unfinished Sympathy – Orchestra Version” 
> 
> LEA - Lower Extremity Amputation or Amputee.  
> Transtibial - below the knee.  
> Transfemoral - above the knee.  
> Proximal - the part of the body closest to the core. On a the forearm the part closest to the elbow would be proximal as opposed to end connecting to the wrist.  
> Distal - the part of the body further from the core. On a thigh the end connecting at the knee would be distal as opposed to the end connecting to the hip.  
> Myodesis - a method of surgery that involves the direct suturing of distal muscle or tendon to bone to give greater stability. 
> 
> "If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive."  
> \- Sherlock Holmes in The Three Garridebs


	48. Some Things Only God Can Forgive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson all but falls from the gurney as he hopped off as the paramedics ran the few feet yards remaining to the ambulance. He barely registered the flash of Belstaff sailing past him as Sherlock caught up and boarded the ambulance.

_Two years previous…_

“Goddammit Sherlock! Slow down! You’re going to kill yourself before you can get to Mycroft!”

Sherlock heard Greg yell behind him, but not really.

He could barely move as he first tried to stand. It was precarious as Lestrade helped him from the narrow catwalk. He knew he would be bruised and all kinds of sore later from the shock of the impact, but as he could slowly feel his transport coming back under his command he took off down the stairs, heedless of the hurt of pushing muscles not quite ready to be worked so heard. Lestrade on his heels. He was almost to the main floor level when he heard the paramedics come through the doors with the gurney, John straddling a sheet covered Mycroft, pumping madly on Mycroft’s chest delivering CPR

Sherlock comes to a near screeching halt at the blood on the sheet. The deductions rapid fire through his mind.

_Shock. Blood loss. Naked. His left leg._

Slowly Watson’s actions register.

_Paramedics would use an AED, there would be no need for Watson to…unless… No!_

“MYCROFT!!!”

_< >==========<>_

Four dark gray concrete walls surround him.

He hears the names, sees the faces, feels the hot strikes flame against his skin, but does not flinch.

  * __Major-General Will Sommerson – suicide. Wife, two daughters.__



 

The thick viscous liquid levels had seeped through and had slowly, but steadily rose over time.

  * __Captain Franklyn Morris – paraplegic, recently engaged.__



 

He grit his teeth feeling the chill of the liquid soaking through.

  * _Corporal Walter T. Easton – life sentence for murdering his family._



He stood in the cold damp concrete room, steepled fingers under his chin.

  * __Major Erin Margot Smith – killed in action.__



 

He was chilled to his core, but he did not move to help himself. There was no door. He didn’t need one. He knew he was not leaving this time.

_There’s a ripple in the water?_

There was no light, but each concrete cinderblock was covered with official military photos of those in Her Majesty’s Service who have had the misfortune of unwittingly cross his path and he could see them clearly.

The disadvantage of an eidetic memory. There were a lot a names…

  * __Lieutenant Geoffrey Richards – amputee. Bishop at a diocese in Essex.__



 

The remaining tatters his suit offered no protection from the stripes of pain or the cold. In the beginning it was as whole as this cell was empty. So many, many years later it took the liquid reaching his knees before he was honest with enough with himself to admit the liquid was blood.

_It shouldn’t be moving. It has never moved._

  * __Lieutenant General Alexander Ainsley Addams, Triple Arse by his friends – MIA fifteen years, presumed dead.__



 

Mycroft’s ability to make the hard unflinching calls is what made him the Iceman, Antarctica. Those lives which he has saved far outweigh those lives that have been lost or forever changed under his watch. Most of the time the names, faces, lives crossed in the duties of his job do not faze him in the least. He does a job, he does it exemplarily.

Most of the time.

Mycroft does not know when he built this tomb of failures. He does not know why. He is not even sure how he gets in or out. He just knows, living or dead, when the ghosts of these failures come for him, he winds up here. Each time he finds himself here. Head slightly bowed, fingers under his chin. The litany of names and current known status begins in a macabre roll call. A stripe of pain, as though someone brandished a bullwhip of fire, flashes across his psyche as the cold blood of his sins rises higher. At the beginning the photos and the liquid barely reached his shins.

_It’s not the blood it’s the walls. The walls are shaking._

He does know when the blood covers his face, he’ll die. It now reached his philtrum.

And for the first time he welcomed it…

_Stop it! Leave them be!_

The last time he was here was three years ago.

  * __Second Lieutenant Marcus Torley – killed in action.__



 

He found out about Torley from Petrushenka after the fact. It was Thorpe’s call that the young man was there, but Mycroft knows it was done partly because of his interference with Watson.

  * __Captain John Hamish Watson – currently serving.__



 

_Watson? What are you doing? Stop it!_

Mycroft knew of John long before they met. The initial Catacombs mission was officially Seal’s, but it was Antarctica’s brainchild. It had gone horribly wrong through no one’s fault. He had sent in the seven man team to clean up the mess left behind. Nothing in Howard Garrideb’s profile indicated the propensity for what would occur. John’s nightmares started within weeks of that mission. As a result John Watson’s name and face were scored in this cell, whipping Mycroft arse, years before he had officially lain his own eyes on the man that first night in the factory.

_The best thing that ever happened to you was meeting Sherlock. The worst was meeting me._

He had never been able to move before, so it surprised him to feel himself smile as the coldness reached his cheeks, rippling just beneath his eyes.

_Watson is making the walls shake. I did this! Leave them be!_

He had guessed the beginning of Sherlock’s feelings for John with the cabbie case. The moment those two strolled away from him trying hard not to grin like the loons they are there was already an extra something in Sherlock’s stride. When Sherlock left to take apart Moriarty’s crime web, he tried to convince his headstrong brother to tell John the plan. He knew it would likely destroy the both of them, but Sherlock made him promise. Twice he almost broke that promise watching John’s downward spiral in the aftermath. It would have prevented much of what followed upon Sherlock’s return.

_Why is John yelling at me about Sherlock?_

He kept his brother’s confidence and was actually glad for the appearance of Mary Morstan, who drew John out of his self-imposed shell. There was no reason to do more than a superficial check. She was who she appeared to be. Then she shot Sherlock and the whole truth fell out.

_Sherlock please stop yelling._

_Sherlock…?_

_< >==========<>_

Mycroft had coded near the top the stairs. The paramedics used the defibrillator three times, without response and called it.

“NO!!!”

John would not hear them. As soon as they reached the top and the dropped the wheels of the gurney, Watson on Mycroft pounding.

“Get the fuck out of your palace! I know you’re in there! I know you are!”

Somewhere it registers that he hears Sherlock’s scream for his brother, but the doctor only has eyes for the man beneath him.

“I’m not here to help! Sherlock needs you! Breathe!”

Watson have heard others describe Mycroft’s eyes dead cold. Glancing at them now, seeing it for reality...

_No, they have no idea what dead cold looks like on him._

“Goddamn you, you bastard! Come back to Sherlock!”

_I cannot let Sherlock see this._

Watson balls his fist and slams into Mycroft’s chest.

“BREATHE!!”

He feels the slight give. More important feels the slight return and the airy gasp of breath returning. The paramedic at the rear of the gurney stops short at the sight of Mycroft’s breath lightly mists the mask.

“WE’VE GOT A PULSE! MOVE!”

Watson all but falls from the gurney as he dropped off as the paramedics race the few feet yards remaining to the ambulance. He barely registered the flash of Belstaff sailing past him as Sherlock caught up and boarded the ambulance.

“Watson! Report!” Anthea grabbed his arm as he stood. He pushed her hand off roughly, turning just in time to see Sherlock take a seat and grab his brother’s hand.

Sherlock looks up and fathomless blue, meet crystalline green for the first time in four years.

John gasps from the pain seen there as Sherlock grabs the front his shirt and nods once to John in acknowledgement.

The eye contact is broken as the ambulance doors are slammed shut and a moment later it takes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Kesha “Praying”


	49. There's So Much I Want To Say But It's Locked Deep Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes a step forward to the doors. Fingers out to touch them. To go through them. Then with a ragged breath backs away, knowing what will happen if he touches the door. Knowing if he goes through them right now. Knowing if he goes to Sherlock’s side, he may not leave.

_Two year previous…_

“John you were at Baker Street. You were coming to see him anyway.” Greg tried to reason with John.

 _“_ I can’t see him now. Not like this _._ ” John shook his head.

John, Greg and Anthea were standing just outside of the private waiting room. They were mere minutes behind the Ambulance that rushed Mycroft straight to the operating room, but John could not make himself go into the room where Sherlock was waiting alone. John was trying to get Greg to go in and sit with him.

“Sitting and waiting and worrying in a hospital is always the most miserable of times recognized to the average man. Can you truly imagine what it must be like for a Holmes? What it must be like for Sherlock right now? He has never gone through this for Mycroft before. I cannot begin to fathom what he is going through, but I know he is going mad. I have to go back. You have to be here for him Greg. You HAVE to!”

He looked through the small windows of the doors at the detective. Head in his hands, tightly gripping his curls. That which can be seen of his face a total wreck of emotions Sherlock cannot hide. John takes a step forward to the doors. Fingers out to touch them. To go through them. Then with a ragged breath backs away, knowing what will happen if he touches the door. Knowing if he goes through them right now. Knowing if he goes to Sherlock’s side, he may not leave.

“I am sure I am the last person he wants to see now. Not like this. He can’t take it. I can’t do it. I can’t!” John’s voice broke on the last two words as he looked to the walls seeing his army base, where he should be, looked back at the waiting room, where he wants to be and quickly pivoted on a heel to walk away and stopped short at the petite blond appearing before him.

“Anthea take Captain Watson to Heathrow. He’s been given clearance. I will stay here until your return.”

John dipped his head once in acknowledgement and thanks. He could not speak anymore as he gave Greg one last nod before walking away.

“Yes, Lady Smallwood.” Anthea nodded quickly, gratefully. If the PA was surprised by the woman’s appearance, she hid it well as she caught up.

“John.”

Watson stopped short at the low, but familiar breath of his name.

_Sherlock._

<>==========<>

Sherlock has never had to wait on Mycroft in a hospital. It was always the other way around.

The closest he’d ever come to sitting at Mycroft’s side in hospital was November 1982. The one and only time he had been held captive. Mycroft had come back from the mission severely dehydrated and malnourished. Sherlock remembered accusing his brother of being in the hospital solely for the experience as Mycroft had check himself out twenty-four hours later from sheer boredom.

_Dehydration and Malnutrition._

Sherlock sniffed derisively as he paced the small private room.

_So this is what it really feels like. When it's a life on the line. It is so much worse than I imagined._

_I am sorry, Brother Mine._

He took off the Belstaff and flung it in a chair as he flung himself in another.

_So minor compared to all I’ve had you sit through in turn, Brother Mine. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the universe gave me a dose of the medicine. But my God!_

The ride in the ambulance flick through him mind like a film failing in a projector. They had brought the pieces of Mycroft’s leg with them. Nathaniel Garrideb had haphazardly cut through Mycroft’s leg three times before being interrupted at the start of the fourth. Sherlock heard the words as the medic called it in, but all he could concentrate on was holding the long pale fingers, that had held his so many times before and watching his breath mist the mask covering his nose and mouth.

_You started to leave didn’t you? Leave the world. Leave me._

“John wouldn’t let you go.” He whispered aloud to no one.

_John._

Seeing John straddling Mycroft. Seeing the doctor pounding on him threw him. Lestrade grabbing Sherlock shouting at him to let Watson try is the only thing that kept him from running to the gurney and knocking John off of his brother. It gave Sherlock the extra moment to observe knew by their behavior, that the paramedics had pronounced Mycroft dead as they wheeled him out. Seeing Mycroft’s chest rise on its own with that breath of life nearly brought Sherlock to his knees. They had given up on his brother, but not Watson.

[“Sherlock needs you!”]

_You know what he means to me. What he and I mean to each other._

[“Come back to Sherlock!”]

He thinks about the haunted look in John’s oh so blue eyes just before the ambulance doors closed.

_God only knows what my anger and negligence has let him do to you. Yet you saved him for me anyway. For me._

[“Still he rescued him. That is who he is.”]

Sherlock hears snippets of the conversation just outside the door.

_He’s leaving. No._

Sherlock runs to the closed door. Sees John walking away, Anthea catching up to him.

The strong stride, shoulders squared. Yet there was something different.

_Let him go, Holmes. Focus on your brother. John cannot help you now._

It did not matter. The call fell from his lips anyway.

It was a whisper, a poem. Had he believed in a God it might have been a prayer.

“John.”

Sherlock barely heard himself speak, yet the doctor stopped short at the call and slowly turned.

_Anticipation. Excitement. Heart racing…_

John’s eyes widen as he takes the sight of him, his breath catching, the tentative smile.

_…And as scared and happy to see me, as I him._

“Sherlock.”

The susurrus of his name from John’s lips is balm, epiphany and invocation as Sherlock pushed through the doors. He felt John’s deep blue eyes as they watched his movements as they approached each other.

_Yes, Doctor, I’m stiff. Definitely bruised. But unsurprisingly cannot feel a single pain right now._

Seeing John on the video was one thing. Having the full force of his presence before him again was near breath taking. Everything he spent the past four years trying to forget about the man flooded his psyche. His compact form, made more solid from being back in Her Majesty’s Army. His sandy hair shot with streaks of silver giving him a distinguished look. There were new lines, yet there was something in the nervous half-smile that hinted the cheeky boyishness he knew was within.

_At least I hope it is still there._

“John… I…” Sherlock looked to the waiting room, where he should be, looks back at John, where he wants to be, not quite knowing what to say.

“I know.” John’s all too familiar lip lick that turns into the equally familiar half-smile as he shrugs helplessly.

Greg was running his hand through his hair - his usual tell when dealing with something he has no idea with which how to deal - as he opened the door and held it. “Anthea. Lady Smallwood.”

Anthea quirked a brow her ever present mobile slowly lowering in open surprise as she and Lady Smallwood walked past the two men, entering the private waiting room.

John arched a brow at the closed door to the private room as they stood in the public hallway an amused glint in his eye. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder registering what just transpired. The two stared at each other for a moment saying nothing, then burst into giggles.

_Oh. Now this... This feels so… right._

<>==========<>

John notes how stiffly Sherlock holds himself, the impact with the catwalk will leave him bruised for a week. He finds he cannot tear himself from Sherlock’s face. He drinks in the piercing crystalline eyes, now an enticing blue in the hospital light, noting the slight tinge above his right eye knowing it is from when he crashed into the door in Tbilisi. John’s eyes, slide over the planes of the Sherlock’s cheekbones for the first wanting to know the feel of them under his touch. His gaze travels the path of tongue running slightly inside the parted cupid bow lips.

_Christ, he is beautiful._

John was not aware of having closed his eyes until he opened them again seeing Sherlock touch his chest again, fingering something through his shirt. He remembers Sherlock did that same motion in the ambulance.

_Since when does he wear a chain?_

Sherlock realizes what he is doing and quickly moves his hand.

_Oh? Something I’m not supposed to know about, then._

John was surprised by how much that hurt.

They both hear the doors open as Anthea peeks out.

_Damn._

“Oh. You have to go.”

_Is that disappointment?_

“Yes.” John cleared his throat, nodding regretfully.

“Thank you.” Sherlock hesitates for a long moment before he held out his hand. “For Tbilisi. For Mycroft. For everything.”

John looks down at the proffered hand for a long while before then he finally takes it. His smaller hand wrapped in the warmth and strength of Sherlock’s grip. "It was so good to see you again."

Anthea fully comes out of the waiting room. “I’m sorry, John. We have to go. We’re going to need sirens to get you there as is.”

“The sedans have sirens?”

John caught Sherlock's brief, but honest grin at his barely contained glee at the thought.

_At least I brought a smile to you face for a moment._

John could tell Anthea was suppressing hers as well she rolled her eyes and walked away, tapping on her mobile.

“Sherlock…I…I…” John looks up at him, memorizing Sherlock’s face.

“I know” Sherlock’s smile is bittersweet.

The glee dissipates immediately as it takes everything he has to not audibly whine as he and Sherlock reluctantly release hands. Something sad flashes in Sherlock's face before the neutral mask returns as with a nod he turns to the doors.

It felt so much like being at the airfield when they all thought Sherlock was going to be exiled after Magnusson. There was so much more he wanted to say then and didn’t.

_“Thank you.” “For Tbilisi. For Mycroft. For everything." "It was so good to see you again."_

John looks at the doors closing behind the detective, sees the bowed curly head and knows they won’t be said today.

_Why did that feel like good-bye?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Gloria Estefan “Words Get In The Way”  
> With a shoutout to RaiLocked who mentioned the song way back when.


	50. I've Found Safety In This Loneliness

_One year previous_

The past quick fires through Mycroft’s mind and he feels the bone saw dig into his leg. He doesn’t realize he screams again until he hears his name.

“Mycroft!”

Mycroft eyes fly open.

_I am not dead._

_I am not in the cell._

He tries to take a breath and can’t.

“Delete it!”

_I am not in the Garrideb’s basement._

“Delete it! Why do you insist to hold onto it?”

He has not felt so vulnerable since he was a child.

He feels a weight on his body and arms surround him tightly.

_I am in my bedroom._

_It is morning._

He hyperventilates gasping for air.

“Brother Mine! DELETE IT!”

_“Please!”_

_Brother Mine._

_“Sherlock.”_

The last is broken cry that breaks through as he sobs into his brother’s shoulder. Sherlock’s hold tightens and he begins to rock.

Mycroft has had nightmares before. Demons that haunt him from places other than the cell. This pattern of waking up screaming, unable to breathe was something new. He could not rip it apart and erase it, it did not respond to reasoning. Even if it did, he did not want to store it in his mind library. It took Sherlock, who recognized the symptoms immediately when Mycroft wake up screaming while still in the hospital to identify it for what it was - PTSD.

The years of living with John, Sherlock had first-hand knowledge.

He feels more than he sees Sherlock take a deep breath and tries to follow suit with a shuddering breath. Sherlock takes another deep breath and Mycroft’s next breath is slightly easier. Sherlock breathes and Mycroft follows his example desperately, feeling the rise and fall of his brother’s chest against his own.

[“Why do you insist to hold onto it?”]

_Because most normal minds do not have our ability to delete. It seems unfair to use that advantage when I’ve caused so many of these nightmares in others._

Sherlock keeps his arms wrapped tight around him.

_I am all right, Sherlock._

He remembers the last time he and Sherlock held each other like this, but the roles were reversed: Serbia.

> Sherlock had allowed himself to be treated for the worst of his injuries at the hospital. A shower and a change of clothes at the embassy, relaying bits of information he had learned, but fully kept his mask in place. For all who did not know him, Sherlock was fine, but Mycroft, the only one there who did, bided his time.
> 
> They were on the plane back to London, each lost in their own thoughts. Sherlock had a tumbler of Scotch in his hand looking out of the window. Mycroft did not know what made him look to his brother just then, but he had just in time to catch the tumbler as it slipped from his fingers.
> 
> He looked into his brother’s eyes and saw – nothing.
> 
> The transport lived, the body breathed, but Sherlock was not there. This was not a visit to his mind palace for he is animated, at barest minimum R.E.M. even then. This was – nothing. It was as though all the power – that spark of life which made him the man he was had turned off and only emergency services, that which kept his body alive functioned. Mycroft did not think, he immediately ran to his brother’s side and pulled the listless form out of the seat into his arms. Mindful of the wounds Mycroft carefully lowered them to the floor in the aisle as he rocked, frantically calling out his brother’s name.
> 
> He does not know how many minutes he sat as so, begging his baby brother to come back to him when Sherlock took in a shuddering breath, threw his arms around Mycroft in a desperate grasp and sobbed in a way he had not done since he was a young child. It felt to Mycroft as though Sherlock were shedding every tear he had not cried since those days. It took a moment to realize there were words being spoken as Sherlock cried for the Patroclus to his Achilles. He could barely understand them amongst the wracking sobs tearing through the painfully thin body.
> 
> Sherlock cried until there was nothing left. He felt the shift in his brother’s body, with another shuddering breath, felt the walls rising and let go of his hold. Sherlock gracefully disentangled himself, rose and then held out a hand to Mycroft. Standing face to face, Mycroft had wanted nothing more than to cup Sherlock’s face, give his baby brother a kiss on the forehead, tell him it was okay in actual spoken words, yet he could not. He settled for reaching up and mussing the long dark strands in need of a barber instead.
> 
> When they were younger, for a time if it creep or crawled upon the earth Sherlock had to investigate it, often to the detriment of his cleanliness and their parents’ patience. Mycroft took it upon himself to hunt down the budding entomologist and have him clean and presentable before supper. He would patiently sit and listen to the discoveries of the day first, giving his input as necessary until it was time to head in. The mussing of the riot of curls was almost always followed by Mycroft turning Sherlock by the shoulders towards the house, occasionally with a playful swat on the backside and a stern finger point for him to go and get cleaned up. He knew by the slight quirk his brother’s lip the memory was brought forth as he turned and headed for the washroom.
> 
> When Sherlock returned, he himself went and changed shirts. By the time the plane landed at Heathrow Sherlock was nearly himself. Mycroft had thought Sherlock deleted the event at some point not long after his return, leaving him the sole bearer of that memory.

Thus he could not help but sniff with some surprise and amusement when the tight hold loosens and Sherlock reached up and mussed his hair. It may be thinning and more wavy than curly after decades of taming, but there was enough to muss.

_At least I’m sitting in my own bed. He cannot swat me in this position, I’d bet he’d try if he could._

“You’ve lost weight, but you’re still heavy on my chest, brother mine.” Mycroft swats Sherlock’s finger pointing towards the bath.

“Well, I suppose that’s to be expected.” Sherlock slides from the bed to standing. “I can’t possibly be heavy on your heart. It will ruin your reputation of not having one.”

“Oh and you didn’t go for the obvious weight loss joke. Are you being nice to me? Careful Sherlock. It will ruin YOUR reputation of not having one.”

The two stare in silence for a long while before Mycroft released a frustrated sigh.

“Six months later and it still itches, Sherlock. All my knowledge on phantom pain does not help. All my intellect understanding that it’s psychosomatic does not deter from the insistence that it itches. And there is not a fucking thing to scratch!” Mycroft snatched the covers from him, gritting his teeth at the flat twisted part of his pyjamas where the rest of his left leg should be.

“I know.” Sherlock whispered watching.

“No, you do not!” He snarled starting to rub at end of his left leg through his pyjamas anyway, part of his morning routine to abate contracture.

“No, I do not.” He admits. “Thus, I rely on you to tell me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Except for your first years in service where you had no choice but to do the physical work, until you proved your talents were of better use elsewhere, you have always used your mental strengths. For the most part you have come through these years physically unscathed. I on the other hand, having a love of the legwork you so abhor, have thrice described the feel of broken and fractured bones healing, concussions, various cuts, stabs, whippings and once even wrote -in length- the joy of laryngitis. What it feels like to unique minds like ours very aware of our bodies.” Sherlock pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat, “Really Brother Mine, if you’re going to spectacularly one-up me like this, reciprocity is only fair.”

“ _Spectacularly one up you?_ ” Mycroft stares at Sherlock incredulously for a moment, then shook his head.

“You’re quite mad you know.” He chuckles.

“Really? This from the man who hid magnets from the Frigidaire in his wheelchair and then deadpanned “Magnets? What magnets, Mummy?” to the very woman from which we inherited our minds. What WERE you thinking?”

“I was thinking I could at least get a good 40% of the hideous things gone before she noticed.” Mycroft huffed. “I didn’t take into account Father would actually _miss_ that repugnant fishing lure magnet. Sentiment.” He spat the last word with a full serving of contempt.

“Your constant disregard for goldfish sentiment will always be your undoing.”

“You are one to speak.” Mycroft arched a brow.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Sherlock mirrors the brow in challenge.

“Your constant disregard for the sentiment of a certain goldfish will be your undoing, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth worked as though to counter, but closed off instead looking off to the distance. It was oddly satisfying that he did not deny it. And oddly frightening.

He blinked as his phone pinged. His work phone. He simply stared at it.

> When he was going stir crazy the first couple of months it was Sherlock who reminded him that his work only needed his mind, not his body. He had not realized he was waiting for his younger brother’s permission until he had it. “You have one job, Brother Mine, HEAL. I’ll not allow anything to disrupt that.” And he meant it. Sherlock had somehow banned all of LASS from contacting him, confiscating phones. Only Lady Smallwood and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had managed to get through. They were the only ones who remembered the number of the sole landline he kept for emergencies. To his utter surprise the call from Elizabeth was not work related in the least. She had called to check on him and would not allow him to change to any subject to anything currently work related.
> 
> Sherlock had walked in when he was openly laughing hard at a memory Lestrade had conjured concerning an old case that had crossed into Mycroft’s jurisdiction. Sherlock watching him literally laughing out loud on the phone brought even more mirth to Mycroft as he nearly choked as he attempted to describe his baby brother’s stunned expression to the DI. When he rang out he happily suffered the inevitably fruitless inquisition of his brother as he attempted to learn the name of the miracle worker, not knowing there was more than one. He finally conceded with “Whomever that was, that they could get you to do that? They have my permission to call whenever.” He rolled his eyes, but accepted it happily.
> 
> After barely working at all for nearly two months, that it was limited to strict hours a day, was a godsend. The unabashed surprise and pleasure in being able to call Lady Elizabeth from his work phone was only made better by the surprise and pleasure in hers as she dropped the latest intrigues into his lap. Again Sherlock walked in mid conversation, but there was a very pleased look on his face as he took a seat in Mycroft’s home office and watched. He was in his element and Sherlock knew it.
> 
> It would be a long time before he would be making international trips, but today was his official full first day back at the office. The pinging mobile reminded him of it.

“Oh go ahead, you know you’re dying to.” Sherlock shook his head.

“Holmes.” snatched up the phone, engaging it before it went to voicemail.

“Good Morning Mr. Holmes. Ready to crawl back into the belly of the beast are we?” Anthea’s pleasant tones greeted him. She had worked partially for Lady Smallwood in his absence. The only LASS member he trusted to not attempt to pry secrets out of his PA.

“You have no idea.” Mycroft answered honestly.

“I thought you would like to know the Kazakhstan operation will deploy in forty-eight hours. Tell Sherlock Good Morning. See you in a couple of hours.” He could heat her typing on her mobile and shook his head.

“See you in a couple of hours. Thank you, Anthea.” Mycroft rang out.

“You need me.” Sherlock continued with their conversation as though the phone call had not happened. “He does not.”

“Anthea says Good Morning. Yes, I will admit I do need you.” Mycroft reached for his crutches and struggled to stand. It was getting easier to remember to reach for the crutches first. It was not automatic yet, but it was getting there. He watched Sherlock flinch when it appeared he was going to slip, holding himself back from the urge to come to his side and help, as Mycroft righted his grip on his own.

_Thank you. Let me do this on my own._

He made his way to where Sherlock sat and looked down on his amazingly intelligent, yet absolutely stupid little brother. “And I cannot believe I of all people am the one saying this: You are an arse. You may feel safe, yet miserable in your loneliness, but unlike me, you really are not meant to be alone, Brother Mine. Neither is he. However, if you are so determined to be of annoyance to me a while longer, I do have a job for you. I’m going to take a shower, see you downstairs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Metallica “The Unnamed Feeling”
> 
>  _“…the Patroclus to his Achilles.”_ because of course Sherlock would reference classic mythology. 
> 
> The relationship between Achilles and Patroclus is a key element of the stories associated with the Trojan War. Its exact nature has been a subject of dispute in both the Classical period and modern times. In the Iliad, Homer describes a deep and meaningful relationship between Achilles and Patroclus, where Achilles is tender toward Patroclus, but callous and arrogant toward others. Homer never explicitly casts the two as lovers, but they are depicted as lovers in the works of Aeschylus, Aeschines and Plato. In Plato’s Symposium, written c. 385 BC, the speaker Phaedrus holds up Achilles and Patroclus as an example of divinely approved lovers.


	51. Who Would Have Known How Bittersweet This Would Taste?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donnery then wraps his beefy hand around the medical emblem on his opposite arm, “But this? This red cross on your arm, over your uniform is literally your heart on your sleeve telling the world this is your art. Your _career as a soldier and a doctor_? Since when did the soldier come first? You are a doctor first, a soldier second and you are spitting in the face of every soldier in the Royal Army, including me, when you don’t do everything in your bloody power to use your God given art. It’s disgusting.”

_One year previous_

Three days ago Watson’s and two other units deployed to subdue insurgents in yet another mission he knew by instinct would not be on anyone’s official record. They took the insurgents, but lost one from his unit, three from another team and the medic from the third team. Using a mirror, pure grit and a slew of cursing he talked a second lieutenant through the fun process of removing small shrapnel from the back of his right calf. He flexed it gently. It still hurt, but he’d be fine.

He leaned back against a wall and idly watched as an insurgent was being interviewed, using a utility knife to clean his nails.

 _Interviewed_.

Watson sniffed to himself. 

It had been going on for over three hours and everyone in the room knew it stopped being an interview two of those hours ago. Watson had walked into the room just as the insurgent, whose name has changed three times that Watson could count had spat at Major Sam Deans who was conducting the interview. It turned into interrogation once his arms were tied behind him and the first punch was thrown by Deans.

A slow, but steady trickle of blood from a scalp wound trailed down from insurgent’s head and was collecting in his collar staining it darkly. John watched it lazily.

_That has to be itching him like crazy._

It was hot in the room, being shades from the sun did nothing to abate sweat. His leg itched in a flash of Tbilisi memory that he shut down immediately.

_At least it’s not me – I’m not of importance anymore._

_It's been six months since London. I’m not of importance to much of_ _anyone, anymore.._ _._

> Nothing was said to John, but after Tbilisi John understood Mycroft was no longer interfering in his military life. Yes, his range of motion decreased a little more in his left shoulder. As he aged he knew it would bother him immensely, especially in UK dampness, but he was good now. He convinced Eades he was good enough to return to Medical after a month because the boredom of deskwork was killing him more. When he had been there over a month before he was called for a mission, he knew Mycroft Holmes was out of his life. Sherlock Holmes that was something else.
> 
> His return from London was so bittersweet. They spoke! They touched!
> 
> And he’ll be damned if Sherlock had not ended the handshake with the slightest trail of a long finger across his palm. Watson knows he did. What he did not know is if it was intentional. He spent a week oscillated between thinking _it was just an accident, he probably didn’t even know he did it_ and thinking of the many things that lovely stroke of his palm could have been the impetuous to if only the timing, the circumstances were different. The ride to the airport in the sedan had indeed included sirens.  He barely heard them over the beating of his heart as he cradled the hand that touch Sherlock’s reliving each moment of it. The higher John soared in hope those first few days back, the harder he fell when the days turned to weeks turned to months and he had not heard anything from Sherlock.
> 
> John understood, he did. Garrideb had not just severed the leg, he destroyed the pieces he cut. John knew it was hopeless, he _knew_. Still, he had gathered what he could and had them on the gurney with Mycroft. He found out from Molly that after a long deliberation the surgeons did not try to work with the pieces, the damage was too extensive. The surgery itself was long. Lestrade had said Sherlock was wreck at first, but the longer it lasted, the more he felt the odds were increasing in his brother’s favor. By the time Mycroft was wheeled into ICU for recovery, Sherlock, Anthea and Lady Smallwood had reworked Mycroft Holmes’ life, moving everything needed medically into his manse. John understood Sherlock would be focused on his brother during recovery. As well he should be - it was going to be a long recovery. At six months Mycroft likely was only now in the process of being fitted for his very first prosthetic. Still…
> 
> _I went to 221B, you had to know of that within a couple of weeks, if not days. What does it mean that you, who practically lives on your mobile, cannot take moment to at least shoot an email? Not a word from you. Not even a sodding emoji? Something? You know where to find me._
> 
> And there’s the rub. The gifting _My Soldier’s War_ proved the consulting detective can reach out to him when he wants to. This silence from him was all the more hurtful because of the hope he had felt at the hospital all the way up to that hand shake. John was pretty sure he could now return to London when he wanted, but  if Baker Street is in fact closed to him, what else was there?  Mary?
> 
> _Where are you Petrushenka?_
> 
> No one has heard head nor tails from Rosamund for nearly a year. He knows, the unofficial record presumes she’s been retired, but until a body is found, John had his doubts. After all she had managed to disappear from the lenses of both Mycroft and Moriarty for a few years living as Mary Mortsan. If Charles Augustus Magnusson had not happened in their lives she may very much still be happily living as Mary Watson. Whether they would still be married now – well that was another question.
> 
> _Fait accompli Watson, let it go.  We settled up at Tbilisi. We’re good. Wherever she is, I hope she’s happy._
> 
> Not knowing what else to do he re-upped again when his tour ended. 
> 
> He volunteered for missions. Official and otherwise. At the ready when his services were needed, grateful when they weren’t.

Unfortunately, this mission had fallen solidly into the former category. Major Deans wanted his pound of flesh as he had the most losses of the three units. The insurgent was not cooperating.

_Huh?_

Watson did not need to be in the room, there were two others in the room, weapons at the ready along with Deans, but he stayed. Hands now in his cargo pockets. There was something about the insurgent; the way he moved in the chair. Something he could not put a finger on.

“{Tell us what we need to know and this stops.}”

“{I don’t know anything! Please!}”

“{We found the makings of EIDs in your home – you know something!}”

More denials. More hits.

“Major? I, I don’t know about this…” John recognized Second Lieutenant Adam Haley’s nervous tones.

_First time witnessing a live interrogation. That's always hard._

“What is there to know? He has information, I want it. He can give it up or we can…”

Watson let loose a piercing whistle, Deans dropped.

_Right ear!_

_Left ear!_

_Bollocks!_

A thrown scalpel matched each mental call. The insurgent’s head stayed sandwiched between the sharps impaled in the high back of the chair. The fright of it revealed his arms were free of the ropes. He was about to rise from the chair when the last blade pierced the material of his perahan tunban. The man glanced up at Watson who had another scalpel at the ready.  

“{Move and the next one goes in your throat!}”

Donnery’s voice boomed into the room. “Watson what the hell are you doing?”

“Subduing an insurgent.” Deans answered rising from the floor."Bellums who the hell taught you to tie s knot. Search him carefully and tie him again. 

Bellums searched and resecured the man as Watson retrieved his sharps capping them again. Bellums found a small knife hidden in the insurgent's sleeve. Bilious 

_Ah, that's the movement, cutting through rope while trying to keep the shoulders sill._

“Why is my doctor throwing scalpels at him like he’s a circus act?” Donnery rounded on Deans. 

A quick vision of the Chinese Circus floated across Watson’s mind, suddenly seeing feathered daggers impaled in the chair framing the insurgents head. He bit his lip hard to keep his face straight in front of the two majors squaring off.

_Good God Watson NOT NOW! You’re as bad as Sherlock!_

“By having a soldier in the room who actually noticed the bastard was being weird and acted accordingly, Donnery. We missed - no, I missed a knife he had in his sleeve. Your man likely saved one of us from being stabbed.”

Donnery glanced at the insurgent,  “How long has he been bleeding?”

“Since we brought him in three hours ago.” Haley answered “He got it during the firefight when we captured him.”

Donnery did a slow head turn to Watson in shock.

_Oh bloody hell…_

<><> 

The ride back to the base was blissfully silent which had suited Captain Watson just fine, but he really should have known better. Major Francis Donnery pulled into base and parked. That it was similar to the times they have had a heart-to-heart was John's only warning before the man turned in his seat and laid into him.

Watson had been lambasted and threatened by the best. While he respected the man as a soldier, he was so NOT in the mood to hear a thing he had to say as a friend. At least not until Donnery let it slip on how Watson’s actions affected the major’s record.

Then he had heard enough.

“Oh, of course. Because me and my career as a soldier and a doctor are a reflection of _you._ ” Watson snarled.

“Do you _hear_ yourself? It’s about the doctor that used to be in you! It’s about _what you did, what you’re doing, and fuck only knows what you’ll do next!_ You’ve denied healing you could have given, you’ve denied care to someone in need!

But this here? How you just stood there and watched a man bleed? You, you are denying yourself the chance to practice your art.  Practice who you are as an artist, Doctor Watson!  Do you know how many army doctors work their arses to do what you seem to be able to do easily as breathing? Now me? I’m a soldier, all I’ve even been, all I’ll ever be; I know this. But you? You are a _doctor_.”

“This is your skill.” Donnery slapped at the hand holding the strap to the rifle slung over John’s shoulder, “That stunt you pulled with the scalpels is one thing, a fine example of your soldier skill, Captain Watson.”

Donnery then wraps his beefy hand around the medical emblem on his opposite arm, “But this? This red cross on your arm, over your uniform? It is your heart on your sleeve telling the world this is your art. Your career _as a soldier and a doctor_? Since when did the _soldier_ come first? You are a doctor first, a soldier second and you are spitting in the face of every soldier in the Royal Army, including me, when you don’t do everything in your bloody power to use your God given art. It’s disgusting.”

“Oh, have I _disgusted_ you with my choices, Major?”

“What the fuck has got into you, John? When did you become so unfeeling?”

John rounded on him. “Unfeeling? You’ve NO idea what I’m feeling!”

“Then _explain_ it to me, Captain. You went from being Thorpe’s whipping boy to being damn near invisible after Tbilisi. Then a month after you come back from London you start _volunteering_ for missions. Volunteering for the unsanctioned missions.”

Watson unclenched his jaw, the pain of having done so for so long made itself known. Of course Donnery would know about the unsanctioned.

"And one would think after that last one that nearly put you in the hospital again you’d slow down, but here you are in this godforsaken mess. At the rate you’re taking on these missions John and the risks you take while on them, you are going to get yourself killed. Is that what you want?”

“Maybe!” John snapped as he rips his arm from a stunned Donnery, grabbed his gear from the back of the jeep and stalked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from– Adele “Someone Like You”


	52. Causing Fire And Desire In This Mortal Soul To Live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock curses the fickle deities he does not believe in aloud as they were not done mocking him with his own emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Tom Petty who had his last dance with Mary Jane into the great wide open, now free fallin' in our hearts and memories. 
> 
>  
> 
> [ You Don't Know How It Feels ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9TlBTPITo1I)

_One year previous_

Sherlock sat in the window with his binoculars and patiently waited. Patiently meaning his laptop was also open as he ran through surveillance evidence on a different case. A twenty-minute text chat with Molly that helped solve two cold cases for Lestrade as he patiently waited. He had let Mycroft  convince him into doing some the dreaded legwork brother always abhorred. It was a simple enough job, but Sherlock understood Mycroft needed this time on his own. He needed to know he could function for a couple of days without him. It was early yet in his healing, he was being fitted for his first prosthetic in a few days. There was no way Sherlock was not going to be there for that. This quick assignment was the compromise.

He had a good view for much of the beach from his location as he looked through his binoculars. The target had a penchant for an early morning swim in the sea within the first couple of days whenever he visited this country and liked conducting some of his business from there. Sherlock knew if he missed his target today, he would try again tomorrow at it, but his sources informed him his chances were better for this morning. His trust in his sources paid off as two convertible cars pulled up to the lower end of the tide wall that separated the beach from the main residential areas. Most of their respective occupants, already dressed for swimming, hopped from the vehicles and headed to the beach as one stays behind – his target.

_Gotcha!_

He smiled as his target pulled out his mobile and started texting.

 _You are in a convertible, Dmitri. Could you_ POSSIBLY _make it any easier for me?_

Sherlock sends an amused thanks to the deities he does not believe in, but conceded to their sense of humor that often worked in his favor as Dmitri answered the question when he opened his laptop and logged in, which gave Sherlock a near perfect line of sight to its screens as he typed. Sherlock switched from binoculars to a super telephoto lens camera, zoomed in the moment the cars parked. He made out most of the words, but more important he now had the names and numbers of people being contacted and the password to the laptop, not that he needed it. One of the names is someone he knew Mycroft had suspected, but this confirmation was a gift. Sherlock is all but grinned in satisfaction as he captured more exchanges with underworld and foreign contacts that should never be associated with his target.

_Oh, someone is playing an interesting game, with some interesting people._

Sherlock can imagine Mycroft’s anticipation of what can be done with the information gleaned, so some time later when his target put away the electronics, and then joined his companions on the beach, Sherlock brushed it off.

_More than enough for my brother to make your life become very chaotic very soon._

His brows furrowed slightly as two military jeeps pulled up to the tide wall a short distance from the parked cars and watched as several soldiers nimbly leapt over the low wall out to the beach as one person stayed behind with each jeep to watch the equipment.

Even without the binoculars, their joy in the freedom of the moment is apparent. As they stripped down, their voices rose, it’s all indistinct chatter from his distance, but with the widow open he can hear the exuberant tones of it. Sherlock opened another window; it lets in more of the heat, but also more of the laughing voices and squeals as one of the females of the group is swept off her feet by a companion to be unceremoniously hauled over his shoulder to the sea and promptly tossed in to the laughter of all.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the silliness of it when something catches his attention, target now forgotten, as he acknowledged that he is now the one on the wrong side of a deity’s humors.

A figure separated away from the group and even with his naked eyes, even at this distance, even with the person in sunglasses, Sherlock recognized the soldier's stance and stride instantly.

_John._

He watched as the captain checked his watch, conversed with someone and started to stroll off by himself, casually looked around at the buildings along the beach. Sherlock is minded of his early departure of John’s wedding reception, while everyone else was having fun.

_Alone in a crowd, John? I know the feeling._

Sherlock quickly closed the windows and stood off to the side. Open windows on a hot morning were a potential giveaway for those who know what they are looking for even if they don’t know that they are looking.  He instinctually knew with the trajectory of the morning sun and how it reflected off the eastern facing windows, he should not be easily seen by the naked eye, but this is John. This was not the insanity of Tbilisi. Just as he himself immediately recognized John at a distance, he knew John would have just as easily recognized him.

The detective stood again when he estimated John was further down the beach. And again the gods laughed as John chose to sit, along the tide wall not far at all from the building Sherlock was in, his back to the edifice. Sherlock reached for his binoculars and focused on him. His sandy blond hair, heavily streaked with silver, gleamed in the sunlight, errant strands waved in the slight breeze. John’s sole concession to the weather was the removal of his outer shirt. Sherlock watched from his perch as John stretched for a bit, worked his right, then left shoulders and arms. Military life has toned him and Sherlock watched the way the muscles in his back and arms flexed and moved under his t-shirt. The binoculars gave the illusion he could reach out and touch him. The unexpected cool touch of the glass window on his fingers as he attempted to do exactly that brought him back to reality.

John turned his head away from the group to look out to the sea, his face now in profile to Sherlock. With presumably no one to see him, he removed his shades, dropped the soldier’s mask fall and let his emotion shows. That the emotion is borderline misery was evident as John reached down to pick up a stick of driftwood and proceeded to draw something in the sand. Whatever it was he draws, it brought some bitter amusement for his smile was tremulous. Sherlock wondered what could bring such a heartbreaking expression to his erstwhile flatmate, when John pretended to draw his gun and shoot the drawing.   Sherlock’s breath caught as he now knew. Without seeing it, he knew exactly what it is John had drawn in the sand.

John checked over his shoulder to ensure privacy before he took a deep breath, his shoulders sag and the  _lets go_.

Arms wrapped tightly around his body, as he near literally held himself together. John slowly rocked as he gave in to the tears. Sherlock watched painfully through his lens too far to say or do anything - even if he wanted to.

And with a deep felt pang Sherlock realized that he very much wanted to.

_What have you done to me doctor? How is it that even now -- even now! -- I cannot eviscerate these damned emotions. This damned sentiment. This damned love of you. This damned love for you!_

Then he remembered how he let himself get so wrapped up in Mycroft that he let John return with barely a good-bye. Worse had not spoken to him since. John knew if I had wanted to reach him badly enough, I could, that MP3 player proved that. He replayed those bittersweet moments at the hospital his head. The feel of John’s strong, warm grip in his.

[“Thanks for everything.”]

_How cold was that Holmes? Thanking him as though John performed some run-of-the-mill favor like housesit the pet while the family was on holiday, not saved my life or my brother’s._

_He must believe that I do not want to be around him, do not want him._

_Oh John, what have I done to you?_

He wanted nothing more than to run down the stairs, run to the beach and throw his arms around John. Tell John it was okay; tell him to come home, that it will be okay. Then John’s head jerked up.

_Someone’s called him, too late._

Within seconds the shades are on and the soldiers mask is in place again. John looks back at the drawing. His smile is a bittersweet one, tinged in memory as he shrugged his shoulders, turned on his heel and half jogged back to the group.

Though his target departed not long after the soldiers arrived, Sherlock stayed and now watched the soldiers through the binoculars when someone apparently convinced John to get into the sea.

Sherlock has seen John in pyjamas, he has seen him fresh from the shower in a tightly wrapped dressing gown, and he has seen the doctor in t-shirt a few times, so he does have some idea of what the man looks like. Still, he has never seen this much of the man all at once as John made a tease of it for his audience as he stripped down to swim pants, much to the laughter and cheers of his comrades. Sherlock's breath caught as he saw the scars from Tbilisi on his former flatmate’s back and arms.

_I nearly killed you when I died and left you alone and I got scarred in the process. I let you nearly kill me and you left me alone and you have been scarred in the process. But our most painful scars are all internal, aren’t they, John?_

John made a mad dash into the sea.  Strong, sure arm strokes sliced through the water, in spite of the scars that told their own tales, the captain’s legs kicked fluidly, he swam a good distance out before he returned to shore.

John dropped to the sand and lounged back on his elbows, his back to the sea, legs crossed at the ankles, his body seemingly on display just for Sherlock’s perusal as it dried. Someone said something that had John throw his head back in laughter, it was the first honest happiness Sherlock has seen on John since he’d been there.

_Ah, there’s that beautiful smile I remember._

Mesmerized Sherlock did not realize the camera was in his hands again until its weight forced his awareness of it. He quickly reviewed the contents, a slow grin formed. Not that he was _ever_ going to forget the sight as John rose out of the sea, sloughed water from his skin, his swim pants clung to him, still it was nice to have the evidence.

After a couple of hours, their mini holiday was apparently over. They redressed and regrouped and returned to being the soldiers they are and the jeeps pulled off. Sherlock waited a full half hour more before he left his perch. He easily found the spot where John had sat and looked over the short wall into the sand saw the drawing immediately.  He jumped over the wall to stand in front of it.

“Oh, you are CRUEL.”

He cursed the fickle deities he does not believe in out loud as they were not done mocking him with his own emotions.

Sherlock had no way of knowing it, but had anyone that watched him now had also seen John’s bittersweet smile, they would say it was the same expression. Sherlock lets sentiment in for a moment more and took a picture with his mobile. He then picked up the stick to add his own touch to the art and took another picture. Then like John he tossed the stick aside when done and left the art to the tides.

[ _“…but two mountains cannot move…”_ ]

_Okay, Hudders, it is time for me to be Muhammad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from The System “Don’t Disturb This Groove"


	53. I Guess I'm Lying To Myself It's Just You And No One Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes John’s hand and places it on his chest. John feels the discs under his hand. He gasps recognizing them for what they are even before he gently pulls them out to confirm it.  
>  _My tags! You wear my tags!_

_One year previous…_

John woke up with a start in his semi dark room.

Not from a nightmare for once.

He drew his knees up and rested his forehead on his arms.

Donnery’s words had circled around John’s head for days. He stood and watched a man already bleeding be beat and at no point had it occurred to him to help him.

That was not him. He did not want that to be him.

_I am a doctor first, a soldier second._

He took too many pills for his headaches. He had too many headaches. He pushed and pushed and pushed himself. It was sheer exhaustion that took him each night.

John knew what was happening to him. He’s seen it happen to others.  He’s helped others out of their downward spiral.

_Physician heal thyself!_

_But God, I am so tired of this shite._

He was not aware of how tired until he was goaded into another shooting contest. He barely out shot Eades this go around. Sheer pride in not losing to someone he knows he can out gun got him through in the end. Still, it was closer than he liked. She jokingly thanked him for not showing off in front of higher ups. Back at medical, she pulled him aside and ordered him to get some rest. His exhaustion was showing.

_That was a bit not good._

The prize was a twelve-hour reprieve. Most soldiers took their reprieve lying about the base relaxing.  One of the second lieutenants (God bless wherever the hell she came from!), knew their current location was less than 500 clicks from the sea. That was doable in twelve hours.  Eyes lit up when she suggested it.  The next thing he knew there were seven of them up with the early dawn, piled into jeeps and barreling towards the beach.

_Was it Mum or Harry that said “There’s nothing a good cry and a cuppa can’t cure, or at least ease the pain”?_

It was the balm he had needed as he sat at the tide wall, thought about Sherlock and let go for a moment.

_Six months, no contact. Clearly he does not want from you what you want from him. You’ve got to learn to live, John. Live without him. Forget him._

_How do you forget the unforgettable?_

Still, John thought again on that handshake at the hospital. He had not misread the disappointment in Sherlock’s face when he had to leave.

_He wanted me to stay. I know he did._

“Tell me it’s worth all this in the end, Sherlock.” is John’s whispered plea to the universe.

“It’s worth all this in the end, John.”

John jerked upright at the soft words and automatically looked for the apparition in the chair, not surprised at all to find it there.

“Christ! Bad enough I imagine you sitting there, now I’m hearing you.” He roughly ran his hands over his face.

_Oh, you have officially LOST it Wat……_

“You imagine me sitting here in your room?” is heard with a note of amusement.

John’s heart thudded hard and fast as a slow and tentative hand reached for the bedside lamp and turned it on. Not only did the apparition not disappear, he realized it was not his apparition at all.

John almost face planted as he bolted from the bed to stand.

_This can’t be real!_

“Sh-Sherlock?” He took a step forward.

“Yes, I’m real.” The amused man rose from the seat and took a step towards John, having correctly read his disbelief “I'm real. I’m a real arse and I am sorry and I ask forgiveness.”

_What the ever loving hell?!_

Unlike his bespoke suited, Belstaff adorned apparition, the idiot genius berk wore military fatigues. Hair slicked back under a cap. A surname of Gregson over his pocket, Major rank.

_Of course he’d outrank me the tosser._

“H-how? W-w-what are you doing here?”

“Legwork for Mycroft.” Sherlock’s brow knitted for a moment in amused thought, “Hmm, I suppose I can’t really snark on him about that anymore now, can I?”

“Sherlock!” John sniggered aghast despite himself. Sherlock smirked.

They made small talk for a bit. Other than the prognosis on Mycroft, if you asked them later, neither could tell you of what they spoke.

“Forgive you?” John looked up into those beautiful eyes, Sherlock’s words caught up to him.

“The hospital after Mycroft. I thanked you. I didn’t mean to thank you. I mean I meant to thank you, but, I didn’t mean it, not like... er I didn’t…”

 _Sherlock Holmes is babbling? Sherlock Holmes is_ Babbling _! He hasn’t done that since Moriarty and the pool._

Sherlock stopped, took a breath and tried again. “I am sorry, John. For not contacting you. I let myself get wrapped up in my brother and the next thing I knew months had passed. Oh, I am rubbish at this. Here.”

Sherlock pulled out his mobile, searched for something on it and handed it to him.

John nearly dropped the mobile at the snap shot of the smiley face he had drawn in the sand at the beach. Only Sherlock had added a rough drawn violin on one side and a stethoscope on the other.

_He was there?_

John’s hand trembled as he stared at the photo astonished. 

_He was there! He saw me! Why he didn’t say anything?!_

“Why didn’t you say something, Sherlock?”

“I was working. When I saw you at the tide wall you took me by surprise. You looked so… _hurt_. I knew it was my fault. By the time it occurred to me I could say something – do something, someone called you and you went back to the group. I didn’t want to just spring up on you. I wound up with a bloody nose the last time I did that.” They both half cringe - half grin at that memory. “And I didn’t want to start a rumor that it was somehow a setup for us to meet when we… I just didn’t want… I had to finish my work for Mycroft, but I could not go back with you not knowing that I… I have feelings…”

_He has feelings for me? Of course he does, you knew this, you berk!_

A silence fell between them as Sherlock took back his mobile.

“I can’t do this, Sherlock. I can’t talk with you only to have you walk away and not speak to me again. I want, need you and yet I’m terrified of you. There’s just so much… So much…” He waved a hand between the two of them, circled it around to include everything.

_Christ, I’m rubbish at this too._

“And you think I’m not?” Sherlock countered, “I’m terrified of _you_ , John. Terrified that if I give in to all that I am feeling I will consume you. Because I would. And I’ll not be sorry.”

Sherlock held a hand out tentatively. His burning desire to touch John plain to see, but he can’t make himself close those final centimeters of distance to do so.

“You say that as though that had not already happened long ago.”  John closed the empty space and gently leaned his face into the open palm that naturally cupped John’s face having found its home, thumb butterfly caressed John’s cheek.

The breath of both men stuttered at the contact.

Sherlock took John’s hand and placed it on his chest. John felt the discs under his hand. He gasped as he  recognied them for what they are even before he gently pulled them out to confirm it.

_My tags! You wear my tags!_

John remembered Sherlock’s touch to his chest in the ambulance and again at the hospital.

“You’ve worn these since Tbilisi?” The enormity of it hits him hard as Sherlock nods shyly.

John touched the discs in reverent wonder looked up into those mercurial eyes now a vibrant green.

“I, I don’t know what to say…” He really didn’t.

“Say you’ll try to be safe? Say you’ll finish your tour? Say you’ll come home?”  Sherlock suggested.

John did not know what to say to that either.

So he showed Sherlock instead.

The hand on Sherlock’s chest slowly snaked it way up to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, fingers played with the soft curls he always knew he would find there before he tilted his head up even as he felt Sherlock bring his own head down.  Almost imperceptibly, their heads instinctively turned slightly askance as they leaned into each other. Each felt the heat of the breath of the other played along their respective lips. They stayed that way for a long moment, before their lips make contact. It was a chaste, nearly closed mouth kiss, breaths exchanged. It was perfect.  A soft keen escaped from John as a warm gasp came from Sherlock as their lips separated.

_Sherlock Holmes kissed me!_

<>==========<>

_John Watson kissed me!_

Sherlock savored the feel of John’s lips on his, his eyes opened to find themselves lost in John’s blue orbs. It was not enough yet it was more than he could have hoped for.

_John._

A buzz of his mobile alerted him to the time.

“Damn.” He sighed, looked at his watch. He would have to leave soon to keep his cover.

There was no question of the disappointment in John’s eyes. Sherlock knew it reflected his own.

“How long you have?”

“Not much. I’m out with the early run. I had to actually perform manual labor last night.” He frowned with distaste. “By the time we were done you were asleep. I enjoyed watching you rest. I was about to wake you, when woke on your own.”

“You? Manual labor? Oh you poor thing! The horror.” John tsked with mock sympathy.

“It was, John, don’t mock me! These hands have barely lifted anything heavier than a severed head in years. It was dreadful!” He pouted playfully.

John snorted hard, bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

And didn’t _that_ do something to Sherlock’s insides.

“We’ve really got to try meeting when you’re not involved with something for Mycroft. And I’m not on the Royal Army’s clock.” John’s hands came to rest at Sherlock's  waist.

It felt so _right_.

“I concur.” Sherlock sighed not moving.

“I really wish you would have woken me sooner, so we’d have more time to...” John sighed, his breath tickled along Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock felt a flutter of heat stir in his belly at John’s words, a surge of curiosity at the implications of that pause.

_Time to…?_

Sherlock leaned back slightly, the half-formed question about to be given voice when he looked again at John. The question died on his lips as something subtle shifted in the air.

For the very first time it dawned to the genius that John desired him.

The doctor’s expression was filled with intensity and Sherlock felt his breath catch at the thought of all of that emotion was there for _him_. He felt John’s grip tighten slightly on his waist.

“Sherlock—”

Sherlock’s brow arched slightly at the note in John’s voice and didn’t let him finish. He reached up and cupped John’s face between his hands. He couldn’t stop himself as he pressed his mouth to John’s and tried to convey all of his yearning, all of his feeling, in the touch of his lips.

He heard John make a sob like sound beneath him as he pulled the man in tighter, felt as John opened his mouth slightly against his. Sherlock parted his lips, felt his tongue as it slipped into the heat of John’s mouth, felt as John kissed him back with equal tenderness and fervor.

_Oh!_

He didn’t remember moving, but he felt when his back touched the wall, felt the full length of John’s body against him. Sherlock didn’t know what to do with himself. His brain slowly whited out under the feel of John’s mouth with his.

John made another awful noise and wretched himself away. Sherlock did not even pretend the whine was not his as he hyperventilated at the sudden loss of John’s contact, very grateful for the wall’s support.

“No.” John’s breath was ragged. “Not rushed. Not here. Not like this.”

It filled Sherlock with a wondrous thrill to know he could do that to John, even as he acknowledged his own breathlessness as he closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them again John smiled softly at him.

“You just stored our first kisses in your Mind Palace didn’t you?”

“Guilty as charged.” He pushed himself from the wall and reached for the door as he said the hardest words he’s had to say in a long while.

“I’ve got to go.”

“I know.” John nodded sadly as Sherlock crossed the threshold into the hall.

“Gregson?” John called softly when he had taken a couple of steps.

“Yes?” Sherlock stepped back inside.

“You know you are who I have lived for.” John’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“And you know you are who I have died for.” Sherlock whispered back.

“So what the hell have we done to each other here?” John looked up.

“Being two mountains.” Sherlock shook his head sadly.

“Mountains? Muhammad?” John’s brows knitted together at the odd statement, “But two mountains can’t move.”

_Of course he would get the reference._

“That’s exactly what Mrs. Hudson said to me once.” Sherlock’s smiled tenderly. “Two mountains cannot move.”

“But perhaps we can both be Muhammad, yes?”  The burgeoning hope in John’s eyes nearly floored Sherlock because for the first time he was absolutely sure they were both on the same page.

“Yes.” He slowly nodded.

“Go to the mess and get something to eat, that’s an order.”

“How do you know I haven’t eaten?” Sherlock huffed. “And you can’t order me I outrank you.”

“I've just had my hands on you. You're thin as a rail. As your personal physician I most certainly know.” John raised a challenging brow.  “As your military doctor I most certainly can.”

_I've just hand my hands on you._

There was a playful glint in the man’s eyes that had Sherlock biting his lip. John’s breath hitched, his eyes tracing the lines of the detective’s lips.

 _Oh, so you like that do you?_ He stored the information.

John stepped to him and placed his hand on Sherlock’s chest, on the dog tags and placed them back under his shirt. He knew John could feel his heart as it  hammered madly beneath his touch.

“You’ll go eat, Sherlock. And I’ll try to be safe. I’ll finish my tour. I’ll come home. Deal?”

“Yes Doctor.” Sherlock grinned and ducked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from The Rolling Stones “Miss You”.
> 
> In case you're wondering how Sherlock got around as Gregson. _People see what they expect to see._ I imagine it akin to S4E3 (events which did not happen in this story), when Sherlock, John and Mycroft broke into Sherrinford and how he affected an Scottish accent and changed his gait to sneak off to see Eurus.


	54. But I Always Thought That I’d See You Baby, One More Time Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s entire demeanor changed seeing John’s face crumble.  
> “We’ll bring you home if you’re ready. Are you ready to come home? Please?”  
> The first tear fell from John’s face and a broken sob followed as he nodded.  
> “Yes.”

Ten months previous…

John had needed a laugh.

He pulled out his favorite photo for the moment: The genuinely confused _what the hell?_ expression on a certain curly haired consulting detective at the sudden appearance of food in his mouth via one Dr. Molly Cooper having had just shoved a spoonful in. Apparently, Sherlock was being Sherlock at the lab and it was the only way the frustrated doctor could think of to get it done. The photo, a still shot from a mini-video, titled “I’ve Had An Easier Time Feeding A Two-Year-Old!” arrived in an email from Molly two days ago. For only Dr. Molly Hopper could pull off “Open wide and swallow some of this goodness!” in all innocence. Her eyes widened in stuttered mortification only after Sherlock purred “Really Molly?” at her, but he does in fact opens wide and swallows as she offered another spoon of food.

Connecting via Skype a handful of times in the two months since Major Tobias Gregson appeared in John’s room has been more miss than hit as neither man exactly followed a schedule. Setting specific times proved to be a challenge as Sherlock was out on a case with Lestrade a couple of times and John was in surgery that ran into complications in another. Both were trying. It was enough.

John still smiled from the memory when Captain Melanie Eades leaned her body against the wall and slid down to sit next to John on the ground outside of Medical. This late in the day they were in the shade and hot was still hot, but he couldn’t be inside anymore.

John, Melanie and Marty Shin had spent a couple of hours in the aftermath of a skirmish that included a burning helicopter. Recovery was always the most heartbreaking part of John’s service. Identifiable bodies were one thing. Stray appendages were another. It was painstaking documentation of what, how, where and when, but not always who as each part is placed in its own body bag and sent off in its own stretcher, being treated as reverently as if it were a whole body. Some were easily matched; some would need DNA level identification. All were now being turned over to Mortuary and Joint Casualty and Compassionate Centre (JCCC) to finish the identification and repatriation process from there.

“Eleven arms, nine legs, three heads, two partial torsos and one eye…  God!” His fellow doctor groaned.

John groaned in sympathy. He understood. Early in his career he remembered watching as a  chaplain said prayers over part of an arm of a fallen brother-in-arms. The soldier identifiable solely by his tattoos for nothing else could be found of the man.

Word had radioed in that it was going to be a bad one, but there really is no preparing oneself for this. John was on rotation and asked for Eades help. They worked well together. Shin heard and joined in to help, though his shift was not for another couple of hours.  John and Eades were finished and officially off shift, but he needed a moment before he headed back to his bunk. Apparently Eades did as well.

“It never really gets easier does it, Watson?”

“No, it doesn’t. Not really sure if I want it to.” John lifted his head looked back at the wall as id he could see the now quiet surgery. “I don’t ever want things like this to be so common place, that I become jaded, that it no longer moves me.”

“Is that why you’re getting out now? You’ve finally had enough? How much you have left?”

“Yup. More than enough for this lifetime.” He did a quick calculation though he knew the numbers by heart “Twenty-three days and a wake-up.”

“I’m glad. You should have gotten out before long ago, John. You were beginning to really worry me.”

John mused over several tongue lashings he had received from his fellow doctor in the past couple of years.

“Beginning to?”

“After Tbilisi I would not have been surprised if I heard you ate your gun.”  She stated baldly.

“Damn Mel.” John stood quickly, taken aback as much by the words as by the bluntness.

“Sorry John, but it’s the truth.” She stood as well, placed1 a consoling hand on his crossed arms. “We don’t know who he pissed off, but when we heard Thorpe was transferred to an outcropping we wanted to throw fucking a party. You were good for a bit, but then you started volunteering on suicide squads on your own without his help. You weren’t talking to any of us anymore. Until recently, it seemed you had shut Donnery out as well. We were praying you at least were knocking at mental health’s door, but…”

He knew she had not said anything new to him, but that he  actually listened to her this time.

_I knew I was a mess, still am to a degree, but… damn._

“Oh John you’re that rarity, a hard as nails soldier and a gifted doctor who is truly a decent man at your core. But this…” Melanie made a sweeping gesture of everything around them, “…this was getting to you. You were slowly shattering before our eyes. Yes, I would have been heartbroken if you killed yourself, but surprised? No.”

“Melanie, I… I am sorry. Tbilisi was… hard.”

_Now isn’t that the understatement._

“I know, John. I was one of the surgeons who helped put you back together, physically.”

“And apparently one of the friends helping me keep it together, mentally, even when I no longer realize I’m falling apart. Thank you.”  John reached out and squeezed her arm gratefully.

She smiled affectionately and patted the hand on her arm, but John could tell her thoughts had flown elsewhere and it was not someplace pleasant.”

“Melanie?”

“Sorry, I.. It’s just when I recognized Ellis... What was left of him... We had played cards the night before. Showed me the sonogram. So proud he was going to be a Papa. His son will never meet him.” Melanie sighed “And there was that soldier’s legs…”

_The sad part is it's someone's son or daughter; someone’s significant other that they give to us whole. And sometimes pieces are all we've got left to give back to them._

“His legs?” John’s thoughts momentarily flashed to the horror of how last he saw Mycroft and mentally cringed.

“No, hers. Female soldier.” Eades corrected as started to walk. “We matched it to one of the torsos, but her face was too damaged from impact. She had no tags on her."

“Oh.” He nodded, remembered Shin had said there were a couple of female among them. “What about her legs?”

“I don’t know. Not a model’s leg, too many tiny battle scratches I guess for that, but shapely and strong you know? I remember thinking I wished I had gams like that, even with the thigh scar and the... John?” Melanie turned as she realized John had stopped.

“Where was the scar?” John asked with considerable more calm than he felt.

“Um… it was the left leg, along the gracilis...?” She stopped speaking at whatever she saw in his face, “Oh God!”

_No. No. No._

John spun on his heel and reentered Medical.

“Watson, what the hell?” Shin, and the two coroners with him, looked up as John stormed in.

The remains were laid out in temporary state, each covered by the Union Jack, as they waited to be loaded onto jeeps, then air lifted by helicopter and taken to the airport.

He felt the tremors as they started in his left hand and immediately shoved his hand in his pocket.

“Which one?”

“John...” Eades touched his arm. “Let them…”

“Which one Eades?!” He knew she heard the near break in his voice.

Shin’s eyes went wide as he caught on and looked to Melanie who reluctantly nodded.

“Staff Sergeant Anders, I know this goes against protocol. But you know these are the doctors who worked in the recovery….” Shin started, then stopped and looked to Eades again for help.

“We were talking outside, I mentioned a feature of a soldier I was working with that I admired. I liked her legs. We now have reason to believe the soldier may be his wife.” Eades finished painfully. “He’s not leaving until he knows one way or another.”

Anders and the other coroner took one look at John and clearly agreed with Eades assessment.

“Which one?” Anders asked softly.

Shin looked through his paper work and showed Anders, then stepped away to stand beside John opposite of Eades.

All three watched as Anders and his colleague Lieutenant Carson moved with a grace bourn of infinite patience and respect for their job. John had to admire their care and precision as they marched to the remains and gently lifted the container, brought it to an exam table and lowered it just as gently before they slowly folded the Union Jack. Anders handed it to Carson before he stepped away and nodded to Shin.  Shin stepped to the table, hand poised above the zipper.

“John. Are you sure you want to potentially see her like this?” Melanie whispered.

He understood what she was trying to get through to him. She would have been cleaned, but that is all. Wax forms would not have been made of anything missing, she would not be processed, made presentable.  

John stepped to the table, placed his hands over Shin’s on the zipper.

“Let go Marty.” John cleared his throat when the man had not moved.

He looked at the zipper, but he sensed Eades nod to Shin before the man took a step back. John closed his eyes. The zipper seemed incredibly loud in the suddenly quiet room as he slowly dragged it open. He took a deep breath.

_Identify and get out Watson._

He opened his eyes.

_Blunt force trauma.  Crushed frontal bone, Zygomatics, Mandible…._

_Watson STOP IT!_

Eades was correct the face was badly damaged, almost unrecognizable, but he knew. 

He closed his eyes again and opened the bag further anyway. He purposely slid a gentle hand along her left arm past the fingers until he felt the space where her hip ended and thigh began again. He found the scar. Only then did he open his eyes to look.

_Well, I know the full story of that that tatt now don’t I?_

_Where the hell were you all this time?!_

_God, I’m so sorry, Mare._

He felt Eades hand on his back, felt it as it twisted in his shirt at his waist, heard her sniff. She knew.

“Those were my sutures. Next to what used to be a tattoo of an Asian chop.” John said calmly as he moved his hand from her thigh and brought it back up to caress what was left of her right cheek.

“Oh God! That night we sent Leslie home? She was carried in with the other two agents then you two had the domestic. We thought you were ex lovers, not married. I am so sorry John.”  Shin placed his hand over John’s still on the zipper pull.

"I'm glad we worked it out in the end, Rose of the World." John whispered, then moved his hands and nodded to Marty who gently zipped the bag closed.

“Captain Watson. We are sorry for your loss.” Anders stepped up to the table and gave John an honors salute.

There was something in the grace of the slow raising and lowering of Ander’s salute to him, palm facing out, not quite touching his solemn face that pierced a thousand holes through John’s calm façade.

John nodded to Ander’s, no longer able to trust himself to speak, as he returned the salute. The snap of his hand up automatically made him square his shoulders as he pivoted on his heel and walked out. He heard as Eades called after him. He could not speak, he turned back just enough to hold out his hand to her. She stopped in her tracks as she understood not to follow.

John was not cognizant of where he was went until he got there. He was not fully cognizant of any of his motions. He just sat there until he got what he wanted.

“John! What’s wrong?” Sherlock’s concerned face filled the computer screen. John did not speak. He couldn’t and after a moment he did not have to. Sherlock’s entire demeanor changed seeing John crumble.

“Oh John! I am so sorry! We’ll bring Mary home, John! We’ll bring you home if you’re ready. Are you ready to come home? Please?”

The first tear fell from John’s face and a broken sob followed as he nodded.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from James Taylor “Fire and Rain.” 
> 
> I know next to nothing of UK Military protocol for such circumstances. The behavior of Anders in Medical is based on the ceremony done at military funerals here in the U.S. and the incredible compassion shown to me when I became the widow of an Army man eons ago. I choose to believe UK follows suit.


	55. And If You Want It Come And Get It For Crying Out Loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Johnny…” Harry raised a curious brow, as she watched him make the tea. “And what would that most vital thing be?”  
> A slow smile spread on John’s face as he held out the mug without even looking behind him.  
> A tall, lanky, dark curly haired figure stepped into the kitchen taking the mug.  
> Harry choked on her tea.  
> “Me, of course.” Sherlock smirked.

_Seven months previous_ …

John watched as a man in the distance prominently held the Union Jack, a tribute as the aircraft slowly taxied by.

“Welcome to Heathrow Airport. We’d like to remind our civilian passengers that there is a military escort on-board and that everyone please remain seated to give the members of our military the time needed to deplane first. To the members of the military on board we thank you who protect our beautiful country and let us live the lives we are able to lead. For those traveling onward we wish you good travels. For those who live in London we’d like to be the first to say “Welcome Home.”" The flight attendant made his announcement over the PA system as the plane came to a stop.

John wished he had paid more attention to the details, but it felt his mind could not focus on the more than a couple of minutes ahead of the next. He knew the flight attendants, the pilot and co-pilots spoke to him and shook his hand. He knew the flight escort spoke to him. There are other soldiers on the plane with whom he spoke as well, but he could not tell you about it. He was guided to stand by a specially-made cart as Rosamund’s casket was taken from the aircraft. Flags from all of Her Majesty’s military branches, were carried by a military escort, the Union Jack flew at the head of the line. Someone from the Honor Guard member recited a prayer while her remains are secured to the cart.

He did not remember much of the slow march on the tarmac he and the Honor Guard escorted the cart as it drove to the hearse. He did remember a gloved hand taking hold of his. He did not remember much of the transfer from the cart to the hearse. He did remember when that hand squeezed tight as his shook. He did not remember much of how he left the tarmac. He did remember when that gloved hand became a warm ungloved one and looked down to see long pale familiar fingers intertwined with his. He did not remember much of the funeral cortege or the service. He did remember looking up into luminous eyes as his hand was held tightly before being let go.

In fact, much of the first few weeks back in London were a blur to John Hamish Watson as Rosamund Mary Elizabeth Petrushenka Watson was laid to eternal rest. He conceded it was probably better that way, for once grateful for the elder Holmes' influence as Anthea sat with him and arranged nearly everything.

He remembered a tall, slender, dark curly haired figure that dropped him off at his sister’s after the funeral then walked away, as he watched from the window. Sherlock walked away and left John with the reminder of knowing where to find him when he was ready.

That was nine weeks ago.

“John...?” He woke as heard his name whispered.

“John…?” His name was called louder.

_My bedroom in Harry’s place. How did w…? Oh right…._

He blinked at the dual call of his name with the knock on his bedroom door.

“Sorry Harry, I fell asleep. Let me get decent – be out in a minute.” He called out to his sister.

“You must mean putting on your clothes. There’s not enough time in the universe to ever make you decent, let alone a mere minute.”

“Hush you!” John laughed as he headed for the door.

He touched the handle of the packed suitcase inside the bedroom door as he looked back into the room with a grin.

“I am ready.”

<><>

John looked at the clock walking into the living room a few minutes later. It was barely past two in the afternoon. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“I was. I called to check on you. You left yesterday after and you weren’t back before I went to bed. I was rushing this morning and forgot to check, then you did not answer the house phone or your mobile when I called an hour ago. I – I was worried you were… I…" Harry searched his face. "Never mind...”

He looked up into blue eyes very much like his own at the unfinished sentence before she turned and headed to the kitchen.

_Worried I was… Oh._

_Oh..._

“Damn.”

Joh and Harry always had a strained relationship. Three years had once passed where they had not spoken at all. She was not at his wedding, having sent the invitation back unopened. Still, when Harry fell apart after her break up with Clara he was there and when everything had fallen apart for John, Mary had called Harry and she was there for him; his Switzerland in London.

“Harry.” John followed his sister into the kitchen. “Stop.”

“Want some tea?” She filled the kettle and put it on the stove.

“Harriet. Please.” John placed a hand on hers. She looked to him and blinked. John knew it’s his words more that his physical action that has garnered her attention. Neither can remember that last time he addressed her by her proper name. “Please. Sit with me.”

They took seats in the small, sunny kitchen. Harry pulled a chair from the table, sat with her legs and her arms crossed. John pulled a chair from the table and straddled it, rested his arms across its back. It’s silent for a moment as they looked at each other and grin in memory. Harriet, five years John’s senior, had just turned nineteen when their mother died and became the legal guardian of her churlish fourteen year old brother. Whenever he was in trouble, which was a lot in those days, these were the positions they took at the kitchen table to talk about what he had done and how to get him out of it – sometimes again.

“Look, Sis. I’m a fucking mess right now. I know I am…”

“John… No really, I…”

“No. Let me say this please.” John exhaled and rubbed his face. “These past two months are the longest we’ve been around each other continuously since we were living together as kids. You’re seeing just how much of a mess I am. But I promise you. I _promise_ you that yes, I am an utter mess. Yes, I have put myself in dangerous situations far too many times. And because your baby brother is an idiot, I will likely do so again considering my associations. But Harry, I promise you, _I_ _promise you_ – for the first time in a long time I can look you in the face and say these words in all honesty _I am not suicidal_. Okay, Sis?”

He held out a hand across the table to her. After a moment she took it squeezed tight, only letting go when the kettle whistled.

“Oh Johnny. You’re such a tough son of a bitch. Always have been.” She placed a mug of tea, milk-no sugar, in front of him and sat down with her own sugar-no milk tea. “But you’re not invincible. You’ve been quiet these past few days. I feared you need more than what I, tea, tears, therapy or visiting Mary’s grave again could provide.”

“You’re right I do need more.” He stood then turned the chair around to the table and sat again. “I’ve always been your brother, but I am or have been a doctor, a soldier, a friend, a boyfriend, a husband and now a widower. I needed some time to work out how to add the most vital thing to me ever, to all of that and pray I don’t fuck it up. I’ve never gone wrong when I’ve followed my heart on instinct, but like everything else vital to me if I’m given too much time to think I can overthink everything and ruin it, instead of just letting it be.”

He said nothing else, watched his sister’s face, let his words sink in as he stood and made another mug of tea with milk and sugar.

“Johnny…” Harry raised a curious brow, as she watched him make the tea. “And what would that most vital thing be?”

A slow smile spread on John’s face as he held out the mug without having looked behind him.

A tall, lanky, dark curly haired figure stepped into the kitchen and took the mug.

Harry choked on her tea.

“Me, of course.” Sherlock smirked.

<>==========<> 

_Several hours ago…_

“Why ME?” The young woman sighed.

“You were opportunity, Maggie.” Sherlock turned to her, “Nothing more. Nothing less. Someone easy to grab…”

“Sherlock…” John lightly sighed in that exasperated way that told him he might have crossed a line - _People and their sensitiveness to facts-_ and it might be a good idea for him to shut up – preferably now.

_Oh, how I have not missed that._

_Oh yes, I have._

“The thing is we have him. Thanks to you, he’s off the streets, no other woman will go through this.” Sherlock amended. John nodded approval.

“So it’s over, that’s it?” The young women looked at each of the three men around her.

“Maggie, between your testimony and the four others, it will be enough. He’s going away for this.” Greg promised.

Detective Inspector Lestrade had delivered the good news to a university student who was nearly the latest victim of a serial rapist.

Margaret “Maggie” Lawson was having a smoke in the alley beside a club when a guy asked for a light. Next thing she knew was bound and gagged in the back of a van. Her allergy medication had a delayed, but awful reaction to the cocktail used to subdue his victims. He had left her to die in what he presumed was the middle of nowhere, but she was found blindfolded, hands bound to her waist and in the midst of a seizure, by two nature hikers. Sherlock was able to pinpoint the perpetrator’s location to within a specific radius by the sounds she remembered.

Naturally, nothing went exactly according to plan. Luckily, the unexpected foot chase ended with the perpetrator being put under arrest. It also ended with Sherlock having a slightly sprained wrist and Watson had slipped and fell into something that may have been biological, if the maggots were anything to go by, but no one wanted to truly think about. John was given scrubs when they arrived at the hospital, his sludge covered clothes turned in for evidence.

“It’s amazing how you did what you did. All by sounds! I will take your word for it Mr. Holmes.” The young woman stared at the hours old needle prick in her arm where the perpetrator had injected her with the almost fatal cocktail.

_That will heal Maggie, and so will you._

“The world would operate a lot smoothly if it did.” Sherlock sniffed and turned to leave. “Good day Ms. Lawson.”

“And that’s as humble as he gets. Rest well Maggie.” John shook his head and followed behind. “Later Greg.”

“I know you want to go to Baker Street, but I don’t have any clothes there. I want to go by Harry’s first. It is closer and I fear some microorganism is burrowing under my skin as we speak if I don’t get out of these scrubs and take a hot shower.” John affected scratching in various places.

_And he calls me the drama queen._

“Excellent idea, you won’t be bringing that smell or those _microorganisms_ to Baker Street. And is that some in your hair?” Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed as he used his taxi magic to immediately hail one. He kept a straight face at the look of disgust on John’s.

_Holmes you are a right bastard sometimes._

“No, my mistake, just shadow, John.”

“You are insufferable!” John hissed climbing into the taxi.

Though it was not as bad as Sherlock had made it sound, the scent of the sludge was still on John. Enough so that both he and the doctor found things to look at out of their respective windows as they pretended they did not hear the cabbie surreptitiously sniffed the air. John was right, the ride to Harry’s was short. He had barely let the car come to a complete stop before he bounded out of the vehicle. Knowing he was going to do exactly that, Sherlock had cash at the ready, passed it to the driver and caught up to the doctor as he opened the front door.

“It’s almost 8:45 so Harry’s on her way, if not already at work. Make yourself comfortable while I decontaminate. I’m sure you know where everything is.” John called over his shoulder as he headed down the hall.

Sherlock had only been to Harry's place twice before, both without John.

> The first time was, by the letter of the law, a break-in. He simply had to know more about the reticent man he had allowed into his life by pure instinct alone. When John said he and Harriet were not close he had meant it. The only evidence of John’s existence in her life was a framed print of his official Royal Army Medical Corps photo. The intense stare existed even then in those much younger blue eyes. The photo was on a shelf mixed in with other family photos, but larger in size and better framed than the rest, so despite their strained relationship her baby brother was of some importance to her. Sherlock also found a family photo album which showed John and Harriet were close siblings as children, but something happened. There was a photo of them happily building a sand castle, she looked about ten, so John was five or six. Then there were only three other photos in the album. Harriet’s high school graduation where their mother had a fake smile for the event, but her two off-springs did not bother. A beautiful, but nearly heartbreaking photo of a distraught teenaged John holding a sobbing Harriet at their mother’s funeral nearly a year later. The last was actually a collage of a clipping of John and Mary’s engagement announcement from the newspaper, the “save the date” postcard, and finally a photo of the happy couple on their wedding day.
> 
> The second time was by Harriet’s invitation. No, by her demand. Her intensity matched her brother’s in that regard. She knew her baby brother well. She knew John had not suddenly wanted to rejoin the Army as quickly as he had told her. She did not believe the story given to the public about Sherlock’s beating. She had already sussed-out the gist of it on her own when she demanded Sherlock's presence. Sherlock saw her face and knew she was not accepting anything other than the absolute truth and told her. Mary informed Sherlock much later that when she had called Harry a few days after John left, his sister simply asked for her brother’s belongings for she had already set up her spare bedroom to be his. Difficult relationship or no, Harriet knew before anyone else that John would risk it to come see her and he had.

Sherlock yawned as he looked around. Other than a fresh coat of paint, not much had changed in the nearly five years since then.

 _“I’m sure you know where everything is.”_ somehow Sherlock knew Harry never told John about his visit. _Of course the cheeky man would have guessed I’ve been here, because he knows ME._

HE realized John had asked him something about another case, but Sherlock had not heard properly from the living room. Without thinking about it Sherlock went and stood in the hall outside of John’s room to converse. Something caught his eye and he went to the dresser in the room.

A framed handwritten note _“I didn’t know, I am sorry” and a smiley face_.

Sherlock stifled another yawn as he sat on the edge of the bed and leaned back. He stared at the ceiling in wonder as he  held the framed note to his chest. He had scribbled off the note at the last moment, knowing he needed to say something, but not know what to say, before packing the MP3and shipping it to John.

 _John kept it. He_ framed _it._

<>==========<> 

The almost too hot water had felt oh so marvelous as John showered. He had stayed in much longer than intended, as he washed his hair then let powerful the jet spray pound into his sore muscles.

John realized the detective had not responded to his last two questions. He grabbed a towel and stepped out of the shower.

“Sherlock?”

_Great. The berk probably got bored and left and I didn’t hear him say good-bye from under the water._

He dried quickly wrapping the towel around his waist, then grabbed another. Briskly drying his hair, John’s eyes were closed as he stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door by rote. He turned right to head upstairs to his room and walked into a wall.

_What the?_

He opened his eyes for a confused second, saw the wall, realized where he was and laughed at himself.

He was headed upstairs to his room. _Upstairs_.

Harry’s place did not have stairs.

_Wow Watson clearly your heart is already there, if that is not proof that it’s time for the rest of you to go back to Baker Street I really don’t what is._

He turned from the wall and walked into his room.

_Well damn…_

Finding a sleeping Sherlock half sprawled on his bed, the framed note clutched to his chest was an unexpected pleasure. With his face relaxed in slumber, Sherlock looked years younger. John could all but see what he must have looked like as a teen.

The man had horrendous sleep habits that clearly had not improved in John’s absence. For Sherlock to fall out like this meant he had not slept in a couple of days, John was not about to wake him now. John pulled on a pair of pyjamas bottoms and a tee before he slipped the framed note from Sherlock’s grasp and returned it to the dresser.

John quickly realized this was one of Sherlock’s dead sleeps. One where he pushed his body so hard it rebelled and took sleep when it could get it and not let go. Sherlock would sleep for a few hours and very little will be able to wake him. Sherlock once fell into a dead sleep in a taxi to Baker Street after a case. John had to carry him in his arms into 221B as one would a sleeping child. He had no choice but to hoist him fireman style up the seventeen steps to the flat and didn’t _that_ bring back bad memories. An hour later Anthea emailed him a still shot of their entrance from the street. It looked for all the world as though a groom was carrying his bride over the threshold. That she had drawn a bow tie and top hat on John and a veil hanging from Sherlock's head had not helped at all.

Dead sleep made it easy as he took off Sherlock's shoes and jacket. However, moving him was difficult as he had to bodily lift him to get his entire long legged form on the bed.

John found Harry’s suitcase and packed a few days’ worth of clothes and toiletries while Sherlock slept. He’d make arrangements for the rest after he’s spoken with Harry. It dawned on him as he finished packing that it had never occurred to him to ask if he would be wanted at Baker Street again. He innately knew that he would be. They had not kissed since “Gregson” appeared in his bunk. Though they have worked a couple of cases in the nine weeks since John's return, they had not truly touched each other since he had let go of Sherlock’s hand to come into Harry’s house after Mary’s funeral. He knew Sherlock had given him space and time until he was ready.

He looked over his shoulder at the sleeping man as he placed the packed suitcase by the bedroom door. He cringed at the memories of all his protests of “I’m not gay.” Sherlock’s near blatant jealousy of John’s various girlfriends. John’s own jealousy of Irene Adler when he had thought Sherlock had a serious interest in her. If Irene were not gay, he wondered how far they would have taken that attraction. Or if Irene would have been to Sherlock what Mary had been to him - a replacement for the real thing.

Sherlock had turned on his side in his sleep. John laid down on the bed facing him and brushed a dark curl back from Sherlock’s sleeping face. Those perfect cupid bow lips parted slightly.

_The real thing._

John smiled at the thought of waking and seeing this every day.

_And to think I almost let convention, stupidity, anger and pride deny me this._

John laced his fingers with Sherlock’s and closed his eyes to get some much needed sleep of his own, knowing when they woke he can look into those beautiful eyes and tell Sherlock.

<><> 

“John..?” John woke as heard his name whispered in his ear.

 _Sherlock._ He smiled.

“John…?” His name is called louder outside his room.

_Harry. Shite Harry!_

He blinked at the dual call of his name with the knock on his bedroom door and a slightly confused looking Sherlock as he sat up and stared at John.

_My bedroom in Harry’s place. How did w…? Oh right…._

“Sorry Harry, I fell asleep. Let me get decent – be out in a minute.” He called out to his sister.

“You must mean putting on your clothes. There’s not enough time in the universe to ever make you decent, let alone a mere minute.” A velvet voice chuckled behind him.

“Hush you!” John laughed as he headed for the door.

Nine weeks ago when Sherlock walked away after Mary’s funeral he did so leaving John with the reminder of knowing where to find him when he was ready.

John touched the handle of the packed suitcase inside the bedroom door as he looked back into the room at Sherlock with a grin.

Any doubt John may have had flew out of the window as a most beatific gleam made Sherlock’s eyes even more luminous as comprehension dawned and he stared into John’s eyes.

“I am ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from David Gray "Babylon"


	56. My Baby, Just-A Wrote Me A Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry I did not try harder to get this to you, Sherlock. This was one of the most gut wrenching, yet one of the most beautiful things I’d ever read in my life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then there were five.

_Seven months previous…_

The ride from Harry’s to Baker Street proved to be oddly quiet and not in a good way. Each man looked out of a window, lost in their own thoughts. At least until the cabbie suddenly swerved to avoid hitting a pooch that broke away from its owner. The move slid John across the seat almost into Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock instinctively slid an arm around John’s shoulders, braced himself and held John in place as the cabbie immediately swung back in correction.

“Sorry ‘bout that mates.” The cabbie glanced at his passengers via the rear view.

John had started to move, but Sherlock held him in pace, John smiled.

“No apologies necessary. Just the universe trying to put things right.” John nodded to the cabbie via the rear view mirror. He reached up and touched Sherlock’s chest feeling for the dog tags beneath his shirt.

“Thank you universe!” Sherlock purred low for John’s ears only. He felt the slight vibration go through the doctor’s body as John straightened enough to sit comfortably as he relaxed into the embrace and interlocked his fingers with Sherlock’s.

_We’re both overthinking this. It’s not as if we haven’t lived together before. We just need to trust ourselves. This will work. We will work. We just need to…_

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm…?”

“Stop it. Your thinking is distracting you from simply enjoying how good it feels to sit like this.”  John’s breath was warm against his cheek as he raised his head to speak.  

And he was right. It did feel good.

_When did you spin this magic within me doctor? Why did it take so long for me to notice?_

_Why did it take so long for you to notice and accept it?_

_What are..? Wha…wh…w…?_

_Oh!_

His thoughts slid to a stop with the feel of a slight flick of John’s tongue on his neck.

“I said: Stop it.”

Sherlock felt John’s grin as he shuddered.

“Damn. You’re so receptive…” The feel of John's lips moving softly against his neck as he spoke was intense. “Oh, I am going to _enjoy_ taking you apart.”

And damn how the warmth of John’s breath caused a reaction he expected his body could do in theory, but never felt the reality of it before as the doctor’s voice and nearly all the blood from Sherlock’s brain dropped with that proclamation. The reality was a different thing all together. He felt more than heard John’s low chuckle as Sherlock balled a tight fist as he regathered his wits.

_Oh, Doctor Watson you do not know with whom you are playing!_

Sherlock used a finger and tilted John’s head enough so that his lips hovered over John’s as he spoke, “John, I do hope you know, in spite of what some may think, a virgin I am NOT.” The ending t coming down as hard as he could see John was getting as his own voice went into that deeper register he already knew affected the good doctor in several ways.

“Sssshiiiiite…” John's breath stuttered, as he drew out the sibilant and vowel on the expletive.

Sherlock was about to kiss him when John’s body froze as the cab pulled up to 221 Baker. He realized John had seen something out of the window over Sherlock's shoulder, that the doctor did not like. Sherlock turned to follow John’s line of sight, saw what John, sat up and let go.

“Damn.”

The door knocker was straight.

And just like that the mood vanished.

Sherlock exited the taxi and paid the cabbie as John retrieved his suitcase from the boot.

“I’m sorry, John. If you want to wait a moment in Speedy’s I can ask him….”

“No, don’t bother.” John paused at the black door of 221 Baker Street.

“I can ask him to not come by Baker Street. I'll meet him at his office or at Diogenes.” Sherlock offered.

“You won’t have to. He’ll see the suitcase and surmise it on his own. Just as he would not deny my seeing Harry, I would never ask it of him to not come here to see you.” John mouth went into a determined straight line. “I just wish I had a couple of days first. Look, let’s just get this over with, okay?”

<>===========<>

Mycroft heard the dual set of footsteps approach.

_Damn. I wasn’t expecting Watson. This is going to be a little difficult. I had hoped to speak to Sherlock alone first._

“Mycroft, what the hell are you doing here?”

Mycroft grabbed his forearm crutch and stood.

“I came here with something I wanted you to see.”  Mycroft nodded to a file on the coffee table as John entered the room.

_Suitcase? He’s moving back in. Good for Sherlock. It’s about time._

“John.” He dipped his head in acknowledgement of the doctor. “Welcome back.”

“Mycroft” John dipped his head in return.  “How’s it going with the transition?”

_The transition. That is a polite way of putting it._

“It’s a work in progress. I’m being re-fit for another prosthetic.” Mycroft accepted the small talk.

“Good. Try not to tax yourself.” John nodded as he hoisted the suitcase, “Sherlock. I’m going to take this upstairs.”

_Upstairs? Stay out of it Mycroft._

“Okay. Would you like me to make some tea?” Sherlock offered.

“No, thank you.” John started to head for the stairs.

_So formal. Sherlock is apprehensive about John sleeping upstairs – interesting. Just how far has this – no not that far._

_Dammit Mycroft stay out of it._

“Actually, John. This affects you.” Mycroft indicated the file again “I was hoping for this to be similar to how I handled the death of Irene Adler.”

He could see John remembered that rainy day quite well, followed the blonde’s eyes as they automatically went to the drawer where Irene’s old phone still resided.

“Oh, you mean cowardly? Have me look at it and attempt to feed misinformation to John?” Sherlock plopped in his chair and crossed his leg.

Mycroft was about to respond when he saw John’s face. “Sherlock…”

_He’s about to have a panic attack. He thinks I’m about to tell him his wife is still alive._

His brother's eyes widened in realization as he flew to John’s side.

“Of course you figured out I rescued Irene. It IS Mary you buried. I flew out and checked, double checked, to be sure. That’s why you were delayed an extra day coming home.” Sherlock guided John to his chair, interlocked their fingers as he knelt before the man. “I was not thinking when I said that. Breathe John. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock reached out and stroked the doctor’s cheek with tenderness.

Mycroft sat and observed. He knew his brother was capable of tenderness, but had never seen it in evidence with anyone not in dire straits.

_This was effortless on his part._

John took a quick couple of breaths then lifted his head to look at Sherlock. Whatever he saw there was enough as Sherlock gave a small nod before he returned to his chair.

“So what have you got for me, Mycroft?” The doctor turned his attention to him.

_So we begin…_

<>==========<>

“Are you fucking kidding me?” John flopped down in his chair nearly an hour later.

He stared at the papers spread out on the coffee table stunned. His eyes flicked between the two brothers.

John had _inherited_ a sizeable sum of money when Sherlock died. All of which he had steadfastly refused to touch. Chose to live solely off what he earned working at the clinic as a civilian. Even after Sherlock’s return John suspected Mycroft still held it in a trust somewhere, in spite of his insistence that he give it all to charity. He had not touched any of it.

Now he had inherited Petrushenka’s money and once all tallied up, it too was a sizeable sum. Funds established in various banks once Mycroft had tracked down all of her aliases was more than a score’s worth of his civilian pay. Then there were the _other_ accounts. She had kept immaculate records – once John had figured out her system, John knew which monies were from legitimate work and which were from her freelance  _gun for hire_ days. 

“Though you separated, you two never got around to filing for divorce. It’s all yours free and clear as widower, John. The estate taxes etc., Anthea has already handled that. All you have to do is sign.” Mycroft had the necessary papers out, “She’d want you to keep it, John. At least keep the funds she earned honestly. She knew you would never accept 100 pounds from her. let alone this well over a million pounds, if you thought for one moment so much as one pound of it was blood money. It has to be why she bothered to separate the accounts the way she did.”

John stood and went to the window. Sherlock came and stood beside him.

“You could buy 221 Baker Street from Mrs. Hudson.”

“As if she’d ever sell!” John sniffed amused. “And do what? Leave England? It would fall.”

“True.” Sherlock chuckled as he place a hand on his back. John leaned into the touch. “You don’t live extravagantly, John, it’s not your nature. She’s left more than enough to live quite comfortably here in London. Especially once you go back to clinic work. Invest properly and you could do even more.”

“It’s just so strange, to have money. After spending so much of my life worrying about it.” John half shrugged.

“So what’s the first thing you’re going to buy with your new found riches?” Sherlock teased.

“A refrigerator to put your experiments in. It was really disconcerting to realize that was NOT milk I was about to put in my tea last week.”  John huffed.

“You almost ruined my experiment.” Sherlock pouted.

“You almost ruined my lunch.” John countered.

“If you please! We’re not finished, yet.” Mycroft groaned.

_Wow, that almost sounded normal for the bastard._

“Someday, when we’re all a little better I am going to deck you.” John announced calmly as he turned to Mycroft.

Mycroft raised a brow in a sneer and opened his mouth

“Oh, I dare you to let those words fall from your lips even facetiously, Brother Mine.” Sherlock snapped, stopping whatever Mycroft was about to say. “And it won’t be John who hits you.”

“Fine.” John returned to the couch and started signing the appropriate papers. When done Mycroft gathered all the paperwork into a folder. "Anything else?"

Mycroft pulled out his mobile and made a call, “Anthea, you can bring Elena Guskova upstairs now.”

“Nurse Guskova?”  Sherlock blinked at his brother.

“The same.” Mycroft moved to the edge of the sofa.

“Why is she here?” Sherlock asked.

“Who is Nurse Guskova?” John asked at the same time.

Mycroft held up his hand, halting further questions and stood“Gentlemen, believe me when I say: Elena Guskova is going to be the least of your shocks.”

Sherlock and John stood as Anthea opened the door for a tall hardy, ginger haired older woman. John did not recognize her, but Sherlock immediately smiled and walked over to greet her with a hand shake, but the woman pulled him into an embrace, which he readily returned after a moment.

John did a double-take.

_Sherlock hugged her back? Who was this woman?_

“Elena! Retirement suits you. You look well. I’m sorry for your loss. How long has she been gone?”

“Three months. How did you know my mother passed? Never mind. You and this one over here and your guessing games.”  She clucked her tongue at Mycroft.

“We don’t guess!” The Brother’s Holmes’ corrected with attitude, clearly offended by the notion. Elena smirked, clearly knowing she got them. John grinned as he went back to his chair.

“Still being an insufferable twot?” She addressed Mycroft directly.

John’s jaw slackened at Mycroft’s silent glare at the woman, while Sherlock snorted.

“Oh you two got together after all. Oh thank God! When I last spoke to Rosamund I thought I ruined everything.” The wattage of the erstwhile nurse’s smile went up exponentially upon seeing John standing there. He nearly fell onto into his chair at her words.

“Who is this magic woman?”

Sherlock grinned and Mycroft scowled as introductions were quickly made.

“So Elena to what do we owe the pleasure?” Sherlock offered her a seat on the sofa next to Mycroft. John bit his lip at the elder Holmes' not happy about it expression.

The formidable woman finally showed some trepidation, the smile leaving her face. She reached into her purse and pulled out folded sheets of paper from a cellophane bag it had been kept in.

_Oh. MY. GOD. That’s my letter…_

John sat up painfully slow as he recognized it. “No.,, How…?”

“I am sorry, Dr. Watson.” The woman looked genuinely pained.

_Sherlock never got it?_

The shock. The anger. The heartache. It all must have all registered on his face. 

“John?” Sherlock turned to him in worry.

"I wrote you a letter and left it in the hospital the night before I deployed when... when everything happened."

"A letter? Rosamund...? How?"  Sherlock turned to Elena.

John saw the emotions fly across Sherlock's face before he schooled it again.  _He thought I left without a good-bye. Oh how he must have hated me!_

“I.. I met Rosamund in Rostov-on-Don after I retired. I did not associate the quiet woman with the one with you at the hospital Sherlock. At some point she figured out who I was, but did not mention it, at first.” Elena began. Her palms were open as she held the letter aloft delicately as though it were an offering.

“She was clearly in hiding. Still, I befriended her because she seemed so alone and could use someone. She fell asleep one afternoon in my house and had a nightmare. She called your names, both of you. While John is a common name, your name is not Sherlock. It was too much of a coincidence for both to be together. I asked if she knew you. She denied it. Denied it fiercely for a month, but when I know I am right about something, I can be shall we say _determined_.”

Mycroft, sitting next to Elena, gave a little snort at that. She shot him a look before continuing. John still marveled over this woman’s ability to quell the Iceman.

“Eventually, she admitted she was your wife. Then I was the one surprised, because I had this.” Elena glanced at Sherlock, but held the latter more towards John. “It somehow slid to the floor and I found it after Sherlock had checked out. I had just picked it up when the patient in the next room over started to code. I shoved it in my pocket and promptly forgot about it. You had left before I could tell you good-bye Sherlock, so you had no idea that was my last shift as I was leaving on a month’s holiday the next day. My mother had a bad stroke while I was there. She needed help. I return to London only long enough for me to retire. When I finally checked the pockets of my uniform for washing I found the letter again. By then almost two months had passed. I had assumed something this strong... certainly you two must have worked it out by then. I learned from Rosamund how wrong I was. Apparently you two have me beat on determination, being stubborn and being stupid because I had no idea you two had not spoken to each other in the years since. I am so sorry I did not try harder to get this to you, Sherlock. This was one of the most gut wrenching, yet one of the most beautiful things I’d ever read in my life. As you can see even I could not part with it. Eventually, whoever Rosamund was hiding from must have found her. She made me promise if six months had passed and she had not contacted me, it meant she was gone and I was to find you Sherlock and finally deliver this. I waited a bit longer, but then my niece came to visit and she had The Times. I don’t know what made me look in the obituaries, but I did and I saw it. Sherlock you once said to me something about the universe and coincidence. So here I am. Doing what I should have done years ago. Again I am so sorry. Please forgive me.”

Elena was in tears by the end of speaking, as she simply held her hands out with the letter, apologies continued to spill forth.

Before John could think to stop him, Sherlock walked to the table reached across and took the letter.

The two men stared at each other as Sherlock returned to his chair.

“Sherlock…” John rose and reached out a hand to Sherlock.

“You wrote it for me to read.”

“Yes, almost five years ago.”

“You don’t understand, John.” Sherlock eyes pleaded with his. “All this time… I… I… All this time I thought you left me without saying good-bye. I hated you for a long while for that. I questioned everything - I questioned myself. Coming to me when I was comatose and could not hear you and I found that out from Elena, because Mycroft had not told me. I can wait until later, but I have to read this. You know I do.”

_He knows it exists, now. He’s not going to let it be._

John closed his eyes and nodded.

Mycroft and Anthea left, took all the paper work with them. Elena stayed and has dinner with John and Sherlock. Each told a little more of their sides of the story before moving on to other things. John had lit the fire as a surprising afternoon turned into a pleasant evening, but all things come to an end.

They walked the woman downstairs with promises to get together again before she flew home.

John stood in front of the fire hands in his pockets when they came back up.

“So, did you light the fire for the letter?”

Sherlock held the letter as stood beside him .

_He’d burn it unread if I asked. I know he would._

“No, but it’s sounding like a good idea every second.”

_I don’t even remember what I wrote._

“Do you want to read it first, then decide, John? If you really don’t want me to read it after that, then so be it.”

“No, I’m overthinking this. If it was good enough, then. It’s good now. I’m going to do what I said to Harry earlier and trust my heart on this.”

John grabs a couple of glasses and pours them both a couple of fingers of the good scotch, thinking they are going to need it. He hands Sherlock a glass and goes to sit in his chair.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock sat in his chair.

John watched the firelight flicker across the intense gaze of Sherlock’s face.

_Trust your heart Watson._

“I’m sure.”

Sherlock nodded and unfolded the papers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from The Box Tops “The Letter"


	57. As I’m Standing Here, I Should Have Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where might we be now had I read this five years ago?”  
> “Where might we be in five years since you’ve read it now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing a different perspective with this one. I hope you like.

_Seven months previous…_

I unfold John’s letter.

Like everything else about him, his cursive goes against type. Yes, he's a doctor, a damn good one as I glance at the fine stitching on my hand, but his compact loops, jots and tittles are legible.

“John…?” I glance up as he suddenly rises out of his chair. _His chair._

“I would not have been before you had you read it when intended. I do not want you to feel you have to control or withhold anything because I’m sitting here. I will use the loo and then I’ll be upstairs. Call me when you’re ready… if you’re ready…” John finishes his single malt, leaving his glass on the side table.

While accurate, I know that is not entirely true. You do not want to see my face in case something catches me off guard and I give away something unfortunate that may hurt you.

I understand and simply nod.

A part of me can barely believe what's in front of my eyes as I watch him leave the room.  I wait until I hear John going up the stairs taking the suitcase with him. John is back in Baker Street! I am whelmed by the little burst of happiness that thought brings me, then my eyes light on the letter in my hand and I sigh.

I take off my shoes and socks getting comfortable before settling back into my chair and begin to read.

 

> _Sherlock,_
> 
> _“I am sorry” is so insufficient, but I AM sorry, so incredibly sorry. This letter is going to be a mess, but if I don’t write it as I feel it, it won’t get done, so I ask you to forgive the letter, because nothing can forgive what I’ve done to you.”_

Oh, but I would have forgiven you the moment I woke up and saw you. I know I would have, John. Had I been given the chance.

 

> _“So many had us pegged as a couple, your brother, Moriarty, Irene Adler. Mrs. Hudson had us sharing a bed at first sight. Everyone saw it, everyone but me, and really I should have known. When Mike Stamford introduced us I should have known then. I never told you, but laying eyes on you as sat at that table, dropper in hand, you threw me. When you stood and walked over to me for my mobile I was thinking “Where the hell do those legs end?” Within fifteen minutes I was agreeing to look at a flat in central London with a complete stranger who leaves riding crops in a mortuary for Christ’s sake! I should have known. Then when you turned at the lab door, strolled closer to me and visually scanned me? The feeling as your eyes roamed over my body in such a clinical way that still laid me raw. I had never felt so naked while fully clothed as I had under that less than five second scan of yours and I've been scanned almost naked for an MRI! And then you deduced me and I was floored. I never had such a visceral reaction to anyone. I know you don't believe, but I remember trying to keep my composure all the while thinking “God must have been so chuffed when He thought up the likes of you.” I should have known then. Barely 24 hours after moving in, the cabbie happened. Who does that? Apparently, me. Really, I should have known.”_

I chuckle low at the thought of a deity being chuffed. If we are creatures of some God clearly the deity realized he may have been a tad overzealous with Mycroft. He had to create me to prove the perfection was possible. Ooh, I've got to find a way to slip that in the next time I snark with him.

Though to be fair: I did not know yet either John, not then. It took Moriarty to make me see just how I wanted you, needed you. 

 

> _“That’s the tragedy of it, isn’t it, Sherlock?_
> 
> _I did not know until I thought it was too late. I did not know until I thought you were dead. I had not thought myself worthy of someone like you, it could never happen, would never happen for someone like me. A part of me felt I deserved the loss of you for not having the guts to love you when I had the chance. Your death nearly killed me, Sherlock. I never told anyone, not even Mary, but I went to the roof of St. Bart’s several times. I sat THERE. I stood THERE. I was so close to joining you in any way I could, Sherlock. I was so close, too close to that edge in more way than one.”_

I am glad you left the room now, I can only imagine the shock on my face reading this! You stood and you sat in the spot from where I jumped? I didn't know, John! I didn't think you loved me like that! Oh God! Mycroft tried to tell me how bad off you were, but I wouldn't listen. He told me he almost went against my wishes and told you. I now wish he had and perhaps spared us this. I felt I had to finish the mission - it was the only way I knew to be sure you were safe. Oh, if Mycroft had to tell me you had... that you.. oh...oh. My heart hurts at the mere thought of that "what if". It feels as though I am constantly being shown by the universe just how wrong the decision was to not to tell you. I am so sorry, I did that to you.

> _“Meeting Mary changed that and I will not deny I will forever be grateful to her for it. She was so good to me, Sherlock, so good for me when I desperately needed something good. "_

Oh yes, thank you Mary! You loved him, saved him and look at what happened. I do not apologize for loving him, though I am sorry you were hurt by this, Rose of the World.

> _"Then when you came back. I was grateful you were alive, but my God was I furious and hurt and felt so betrayed. Especially that first night when you and Mary were already beginning to click because she understood and I was at a loss anew. The moment I shaved for you – yes, I can admit that now, you prat, I shaved for you – I should have known then. I think Mary knew right then and there she was going to be second best in my heart, even if I myself did not know it yet. But I had already proposed to her by then; I was already set on that path and fool that I am I did not have the guts to break Mary's heart to change it. Had I the guts back then, perhaps on the day I got married the person wearing my wedding ring would have been you.”_

I blink hard at that sentence.

What the hell did that mean?! Oh John! The day I knew you finally proposed to Mary was the day I started to back away. Tried to wrap a wall around my heart to shield it and give up on you. But I was weak, selfish - I simply could not NOT have you in my life. Look what we have done to each other!

I.. I.. oh! Inhale! Sherlock, breathe!

Damned transport!

Okay.... okay.... Where's that scotch...? Oh here it is.... Better.

Oh Watson. I reach for his dog tags around my neck, remember the awe in his eyes as he realized what they were... I pickup the letter where it had fallen in my lap and continue reading.

> _“Then the whole Vivian Norbury thing happened. Yes, Mary damn near took your life when she shot you, but she definitely saved your life at the aquarium. She saved it at the cost of our baby’s. I was so mad, so upset with you both. I was furious at her for not thinking of the baby first and furious with you, for you and your mouth, for unintentionally creating a scenario where Mary had to save your life. And that's the thing, even in my fury I knew how you hurt over it, how much you blamed yourself. I am begging you to stop now if you haven't already. You cannot help who you are any more that Mary could help who she is. There was no other way that was going to play out. So please - forgive yourself if you have not already done so – you’ve done nothing wrong. Do you hear me? Nothing!  It got ugly between her and me because she knew I forgave you first. I still love her, I do, but I am not in love with her. She knows it. And so I blamed myself for staying with her as long as I did when I should have been with you, because by then I knew. I know I will never be in love with her because my heart belonged elsewhere. It belonged with you and it all came to a head the night you texted about Durning’s third victim. I wanted to tell you before we got started, but there just wasn’t time. We hit the ground running with the case and I never got to tell you I had walked out on Mary. I never got to tell you I wanted to be with you. Even that night when we first walked in arguing all I had wanted was for Greg to leave and for you to shut up so I could calm down and tell you.”_

> _And absolutely NONE of that excuses what I’ve done to you._

Oh fuck. I was such a tool that night. I was mad at how close we came to almost losing Durning. Mad at how much I loved you and could not do a damn thing, mad because you could not do a damned thing. No, it does not excuse it, but remember I did not fight you. I let it happened. I let it. I am just as complicit. 

> _I look at your battered face. I read the internal injuries I inflicted. Injuries that I -of all people, that I inflicted on you, of all people. That I put you in a coma. I look at my hands now and see their side of the damage. These hands that an hour before it all went to shite had wanted to touch you. Touch you the way you touched me when little Jennifer died in the Rasoulin case from all those years ago. That was the first time you touched me that wasn’t accidental, the first time you let the emotion come through. That was the first I thought of you in ways other than platonic. That was the first time I was honest with myself that this friendship, this thing between us could be something more.”_

I remember that tragic afternoon. We had just captured Natasha Rasoulin for Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy, but not before the poisons she used had claimed her youngest victim. You were on your knees holding the five-month old Jennifer in your arms as she took her last breaths. You remained on your knees after she was taken away. You were so distraught and I was at a loss on how to help you. I remember I knelt down in front of you, saying comforting words because though you were so done with the world at that loss, I knew you needed to hear them. I reached out and held your hand, held it because you needed touch and there was no one else but me who would have understood. That simple hand hold was too much and yet I needed more of you. It was the first time I allowed myself to feel it John, to give in to it and I cupped your face for the first time. You looked up at me, the tears you would not let fall made your eyes glitter. You were beauty in pain as your other hand came up to mine that held your face and your touch, oh your touch thrilled me. And at that moment, with our foreheads pressed together, we were on the same wave length. We were. I know we were. I thought we were about to kiss, but then my mobile rang with a call from Mycroft. I have to confess a part of me was relieved the spell dissipated. See? You were not the only one who did not have the guts to go for it, John. I too let moments pass. 

> _“Mycroft is right. Simply killing me would have been the easy way out. I don’t deserve that mercy. The Iceman has threatened to kill me if I ever come near you again. It’s just as well._

Mycroft threatened John's life? That explains so much! No wonder you would come to London and see everyone, but me. Oh Mycroft, you have a lot to answer for, Brother Mine! And he still saved your life after everything. I will deal with you later.

> _I don’t deserve your love, even if you have any left for me after this. Perhaps we need this time apart. I don’t know. I will serve, do my tour, perhaps more than one tour until I hear from you.”_

You waited to hear from a man who waited to hear from you. Oh are we not a pair? What is that musical song? _Send in the Clowns_ or such? That is us. You deserve my love John. In spite of it all, you deserve all of it and then some.

> _“And if I do not hear from you when I am ready to leave the Army again – well that’s self-explanatory isn’t it? I would risk Mycroft to see you one more time for you to tell me to my face to go. I would leave then and try to find a way to live without you. And I would have to leave London for I could not risk running into you accidentally in the street. I know what is left of my broken heart would surely shatter to suddenly come upon your beautiful face and see the well-deserved apathy for me there. See I could deal your hate of me, but your apathy? No, I don’t think I could live with the knowledge of that.”_

The ink is smudged. Oh tears. Were they John’s? Or perhaps Elena’s? Surely she cried reading this? I touch the letters surprised to see them smear. These are my tears? I touch my cheek in wonder to find it damp. I quickly unbutton my cuffs and dab at the paper to save it, then dry my face.

Tears. John's words have brought me to tears.

> _“I just ask this of you: if, and I know it’s a huge one, IF you think there’s a chance you can forgive me someday. Reach out to me. I will finish my tour, I will have the guts to face your brother’s wrath to get to you, to get having someone as amazing as you in my life as I had hoped, (still hope?) to be as amazing in yours and I will spend the rest of my life proving myself worthy.”_

Oh, but you have always been amazing in my life John. Worthy. I told you thus at your wedding…

[ “…So know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved – in short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will _never_ let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.” ]

Well, we’ve each, the three of us, have let one another down haven’t we, John? Mary’s lifetime is done, but we still have ours to prove.

> _“Notice that I have not said or written those three important words here. After all of this, the first time those words come from me should not be in print - you deserve to hear them face to face. So you can hear and see the truth of them and never doubt them._
> 
> _Until we see each other again, at least once more, Sherlock. I should have known then. I do know now._
> 
> _I am sorry._
> 
> _John._ ”

Nor will I say my words until it’s face-to-face.

In one night, in the twist of a few cruel hours, we go from desperately wanting to profess our love to each other -but not knowing how- to nearly five years of pain, of heartache, so much that simply did not need to be, John! There's so much that needs to be said, be done. How do we start to fix this? I am a man of science and facts. You are a man of heart and soul. The day to my night, my conductor of light.

Did I just rhyme?

A drop momentarily magnifies, then slightly smears the last two letters of your signature before I can sop it with my shirt cuff. It seems I find myself tearing up again.

Rhymes and tears... 

Wonders never cease when it comes to you and I, will it? 

I take out my mobile and text my brother. This must be handled.

-We need to talk. Clear your morning schedule tomorrow. - SH

\--Dare I inquiry that this impromptu gathering is best not held at Baker Street? - MH

-Diogenes 10am. You will tell me everything. EVERYTHING. -SH

I pour myself some more Macallan, read the letter again and then a third time.

When I am done I place John's letter to the side and lean forward in my chair, elbows on my knees hands touching together at my lips. It was a miracle the letter made it to me intact after nearly five years as it is. I cannot lose a word of it. I close my eyes and enter my Mind Palace, a beam of light trails bright on its floors leading me to John's wing. The walls softly thrum and I know it is my pulse, my heart. I store The Letter there. Every character, loop, whorl, jot, tittle, space. Every teardrop smear perfectly preserved to my memory. No, I cannot lose this, ever, and now I won't.

I sigh as something in my heart clutches in ache even as something joyful inside me bubbles.

“Where might we be now had I read this five years ago?” I whisper to the universe.

“Where might we be in five years since you’ve read it now?” whispers another voice.

I open my eyes and he is there, all blond and silver in the firelight, eyes as dark as the deep ocean, and just as fathomless, as he sips scotch.

“John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Foo Fighters “I Should Have Known"


	58. Let Go Your Heart, Let Go Your Head, And Feel It Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all that's happened Sherlock does not know why suddenly the thought that John can leave marks on his skin that will take days to fade makes him moan more, but it does...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was pleasure clicking post on this...

_Seven months previous…_

“Where might we be now had I read this five years ago?” He whispers to the universe.

“Where might we be in five years since you’ve read it now?”

“John.”

Sherlock startled, sat up quickly. John had refilled his glass with scotch and had sat in his chair again while Sherlock had stored the letter away in his Mind Palace.

“There’s so much John… I… I…. All this…” Sherlock indicated the letter then shook his head, he could not get the words out. He had held so much inside for so long. So, so much. Too much.

“Sherlock?”

The detective realized with a pang this was the first time John has seen him fall apart like this. The first time he has seen him cry, not the crocodile tears he pulled on occasion for a case, but seen _him_ cry. These were not the slow tears wept as he read John’s letter. His shoulders shook, he was not able to make himself stop and for once he had not wanted to. He raised his head and let John _see_.

John put the drink down, lunged forward and to Sherlock’s utter relief pulled Sherlock into his arms. His arms went automatically around John’s shoulder's, as he shook against John’s solid form. He felt raw and vulnerable in John’s arms - he did not care.  

“It’s all right Sherlock. I’m fine, you’re fine. We’re both fine now. We’ve always been better together and we finally are. It’s going to be all right.” John pressed a kiss to his jaw, reached up and stroked the hair back from Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock curled around him, pushed his face into John’s own trembling shoulder, heard as John released a stuttered sniffle of his own. They stood there in each other’s arms, stroked each other’s backs, the warm fire the only witness to their silent tears.

After a while, John planted another kiss on Sherlock’s jaw and pulled back a little “Okay, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, pulled out his mobile and searched for a file, turned up the volume and pressed play.

_“Sherlock, I’m alive.”_

“You’ve kept that?” John’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Yes.” Sherlock reached over to plug his mobile in to charge. He turned to John and held out his hand. John reached in his pocket and handed over his own phone to be charged before they sat again. “As I understood from Rosamund, the phone you took barely had battery life left in it. Yet you did not call for the help you so desperately needed. You broke protocol. You called me. Why?” Sherlock's voice was soft by the end of it, but he saw by the mood that swirlied in John’s eyes he was heard.

“I saw the date, realized I had been gone several days. I knew Mycroft would have been notified. So I knew you would have been told.” John started to take a sip of the scotch, but stopped. Sherlock did not know what gave it away, but he knew he had done something the doctor caught.

“He did not tell you I came by the hospital to say good-bye. He did not tell you I was missing.” John slammed his glass on the side table. “He had to know Sherlock – I know the fucking bastard was keeping tabs on me! No. No, no.  We are not taking about him now.” John took a breath, settled, took another sip of the Macallen, then brought his eyes to meet Sherlock’s again.

“Honestly? I did not think about it Sherlock. All I could think about in that moment was you. Only you. That was the prevailing thought in my head - letting you know that I was all right. Nothing else mattered.”

“ _All right!_ ” Sherlock cried incredulously “You were not _all right_. You were _dying_ , John! Nothing else mattered?”

“No.”

That single syllable was laid before him softly, but with such utter conviction, Sherlock was rendered speechless as John’s video flashed through his mind.

[“ _I know when I die you'll be on my mind_ ”]

Tbilisi was year before the video, but Sherlock knew John had not been thinking of Tbilisi when he sang those words. Tbilisi was its truth made evident before the fact.

“God, John…I. Look, I know I’m not…” Sherlock pressed his lips together and tried again. “You know I’m not good at talking about things like this, and while you’re better at this than I, this… this I know is hard for you as well and…”

“And we both tend to push away, run away or worse being two mountains at a time when we should both be Muhammed.” John finished the thought.

“And we do that because—”

“Sherlock...”

There was something in John’s voice, as he heard his name whispered, that made Sherlock’s breath catch.

John stood slowly, his voice cracked, “Sherlock, I swear if you don’t shut up. Forget everything else. Forget everyone else and just come here and kiss me right now, I’ll…”

Sherlock didn’t remember he stood, didn’t remember he crossed the small space between them.

He was simply there in John’s arms as he held John’s head with two hands, watched the firelight flicker in those beautiful, beautiful blue eyes, blue the color of the deep ocean in a cloudless sunset. And then his mouth was hot against John’s.

The warm slide of lips and needy tongue. There was nothing nervous or tentative here. John met him with an open mouth, and was met with an open mouth. They kissed borne of years of secret longing and more years of separation. Feeling loved and desired in this way was not something Sherlock had actively sought for himself until he met John.

He had not lied when he told John he was not a virgin.  He was not one with any gender and he was not looking forward to having that inevitable conversation.  He understood the mechanics of pleasure.  He has given and received physical pleasure with others and that is yet another conversation to dread. Yet those were all _the mechanics_.  On the rare occasion he had actually wanted someone to be with the ensuing annoyance of having to make inane conversation pre and post had made it not worth the trouble. By then he had pretty much trained his transport to do without, preferring manual release only when the physical pressure became too much. He had never desired anyone, longed for anyone. Until John. Even then it took quite a while for him to identify it for what it was. None of which was helped as John was adamantly “not gay” even when it was clear that he was attracted. Sherlock had denied this of himself for so long. So long. After all the years of fighting against this feeling. All the fear of giving in to it. 

Now Sherlock _craved_.

Sherlock’s kisses slowed, and a hand dragged down John’s back, pulled him close. John raked his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pulled hard exposing his neck to gentle licks and not quite as gentle nips with his teeth until he reached the hollow of his throat and the confines of Sherlock’s shirt stopped him.  John stepped back just enough and pulled the shirt hem out of Sherlock's trousers so that he could grasp both sides of the soft material in his fists.

They locked eyes and Sherlock watched John’s as his eyes grew darker still as aubergine buttons flew and his undershirt torn asunder with it.

“Really doctor?” Sherlock could not help it as he rolled his eyes in mirth.

“Don’t worry. Apparently, I can afford to buy you a new one now.” John grinned as he pulled the shirt from Sherlock’s body, tossed it aside and froze.

Sherlock hung his head and closed his eyes, he knew what John saw.

Sherlock had seen pictures of the damage to John’s body when the wounds were brand new and he had taken pictures of them when the scars had all healed.

It was at that moment Sherlock remembered he had never let John see any of _his_. He stood there and felt a different kind of raw and vulnerable as John laid a gentle finger on the scar that wrapped his waist and followed it around to the back. The smooth back John had seen at Buckingham Palace was long gone. He heard the soft intake of breath as John saw all the scars on his back for the very first time.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed tight not wanting to see the revulsion he expected to find in John’s eyes once he made his way back around.

What he had not expected was the feel John’s lips as he kissed the worst of scars where they intersected in near bas relief. He had flinched about to pull away when John placed his hand on Sherlock’s waist and held him there as he kissed along the burn scar across his shoulder and arm, the stripes along his back.

John silently _loved_ his back. There was no other word for it.

And Sherlock simply stood there, eyes closed and trembled as John tenderly kissed his way back around. He reached up and gently wiped the tears that slowly streamed, took Sherlock’s hand and guided it to his left arm when he was done.

“Oh.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened as he realized he touched bare skin. John had removed his own shirt and undershirt while he had stood behind him and it was Sherlock’s turn to examine, to love John’s scars.

Sherlock paused, then ran a hand down the exposed flesh. John sucked in his breath and trembled, watched him. His lips first brushed against the star burst scarred mass on his left shoulder first.  Then followed his hands as they slid along the scars down both arms and across his back. He worked his around hands and lips glided over John's ribs, ran up his chest.

“We’ve scarred each other inside and out; each in our own fucked-up ways, haven’t we?” John wrapped his arms around Sherlock waist, laid his silver streaked head to rest on his shoulder, his warm breath tickled his neck.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John in turn so that their chests were flat against each other and they could feel the movement of each other’s breaths. “Yes, we have. There is not much we can do about the outside, but perhaps we can start work on the insides?”

His lips found John’s again at the doctor’s nod of assent.

Sherlock pulled John tighter against him with a growl, pressed his hips in against John, his breath becoming one long hiss as he felt the bulge of John’s erection slid against him.

The hand around Sherlock’s middle brushed lightly down his stomach, traced his abdominal muscles. Sherlock felt his toes curl at the corresponding shudder of delight that went through him. The fingers of John’s hand circled to the trouser button, tanged in the trail of hair beneath. Without breaking the kiss John took step a back, unhooked Sherlock’s belt buckle, then took another step as he pulled the waistband of trousers with him. Sherlock had no choice but to follow or fall as John popped the button open.

Sherlock let John guide him part of the way, changed the course slightly, reached into a drawer and pulled out a bottle of lube and. John looked at the date on the bottle, saw it was a recent purchase.

“You’ve had those hidden all over just in case haven’t you?’ John grinned.

"Since Gregson." Sherlock admitted as he made quick work of unbuckling and unbuttoning John’s trousers before he guided him to the couch and pushed him down where he proceeded to strip the doctor completely.

John had started to reach for him, but Sherlock pushed John’s hands away a little more rudely than intended, but John’s skin fairly glowed in the firelight and he wanted to enjoy the beauty of him there.

John clearly figured it out as he ran an incredibly so slow hand up his torso knowing Sherlock’s eyes followed the movement as he slid across a nipple, made it peak. 

“Sherlock, drop your trousers and pants.” John held out his hand for the lube and licked his inner lip, his eyes slid from Sherlock’s lips to Sherlock’s erection that strained against the trouser material.

Sherlock still stared transfixed as John slowly opened his arms and his legs wide, in invitation, The head of John’s cock in the firelight dripped with precum.

_How is that supposed to fit?_

John cocked a brow when Sherlock had not moved.

“ _Now_.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched as he obeyed.

_I didn't know his voice could do that._

Then it was John’s turn as he stared transfixed when Sherlock’s cock sprang free. John's eyes slowly travelled his figure as he stood before him. Lean, all muscle and bone, but strong, he knew how he looked with the firelight behind him threw all the planes of him is stark relief. He's had other's praise his looks, but this was the first time someone's opinion of him physically had  _mattered_. 

“By God you’re beautiful...” the reverent whisper fell from John's lips.

Sherlock was surprised to find that he flushed in John's open admiration of his body. He had had no way to prepare himself for how it would feel.

“John, beauty is a construct of…”

John grabbed Sherlock’s hips and ran a quick tongue over and under the length of him shorted thoughts out in a sweet gasp of breath.

“No. I want to come with you, in me.” It took everything he had as he grabbed John’s hair and force himself out of that mouth that was doing lovely things.

Even in the firelight, he could see John’s pupils as they grew wider when Sherlock sat, then stretched out on the sofa and pulled John on top of him.

“Mmmm, I like having you like this. Just you…naked…”  Sherlock’s voice lowly rumbled against John’s neck, “…against me.”

Sherlock ran his teeth along the sensitive skin and bit down. John arched into him with a deep moan, the friction as he moved caused his own moan to escape. They laid that way for a long while and rutted against each other in slow deliberate moves while they kissed. He had not heard when John popped the cap when John arched up, but he felt the generously lube slicked finger when it slid between his cheeks and circled his anus.

“I know you’re not a virgin, but I’m thinking it’s been quite a while…yeah? Relax. I’ve got you.” John sat up and  kissed his knee and inside thigh then gently slid a finger partially in.

_Ooooooooh..._

“Look at you… beautiful…. Oh Sherlock!” He heard the smile in John’s wondrous whisper.

It had been quite a while. Over a decade, in fact. Still it did not take long to acclimate before he asked for the next finger.  John kissed him and licked along his thigh, scissoring his fingers before he added the third which he then twisted and tapped until Sherlock’s head slammed back, his impossibly green eyes flew open as his body arched up from the sofa and something inhuman escaped from Sherlock’s lips.

“Easy. Easy…” John stilled him as Sherlock began to ride the fingers of one hand as he applied even more generous amounts of lube to his cock with the other

“Want… Need….” Sherlock _whined_ he did not care.

“What do you want ‘Lock? What do you need…?”  John’s own breath was shallow as Sherlock writhed under him. He stilled for a moment in the glory of the unexpected diminutive of his as endearment before need consumed him again and felt John position himself.

“You… John… Please!” Sherlock Holmes who never begged for anything did exactly that.

Both men hissed as John slid partially in and froze.

“Oh God! John! Please!” Sherlock Holmes who never begged for anything did exactly that.

John pulled almost out to the end, placed Sherlock’s legs over his shoulder and slid home.

_YESSSSSSSSSS!_

Sherlock bucked with the fullness of John in him. It caused John to grab onto Sherlock’s waist and hip hard enough that Sherlock knew there would be several bruises in his future in the perfect shape on John’s fingers. After all that's happened Sherlock does not know why the thought that John can leave marks on his skin that will take days to fade made him moan more, but it did as he found his own cock and began to stroke.  John thrust, tender yet aggressive as Sherlock moaned, cursed and shifted with him, found a rhythm. John released the grip at his waist then wrapped his slicked hand under Sherlock’s and joined in as he stroked his cock.

Impaled and unable to escape - for the first time ever Sherlock felt _safe_.

Safe that he felt it as his fingers slid from John’s hips.

Safe that he felt it as he let himself _fall_.

Safe that he felt it as he let himself _go_

Safe that he felt it as he let himself _FEEL_.

And Sherlock's words fractured, letters broke apart altogether and turned into a rough collection of guttural sounds.  John took that trust Sherlock had imbued in him, tilted his hip, pressed forward and turned their pace into something beautiful and brutal. The sounds of skin clashing against skin both harmonic and inelegant. Each stroke struck that magic bundle of nerves of his prostate until Sherlock's mind palace shattered in blinding white shards as he screamed John’s name in orgasm, barely heard the call of his own name, as John pumped wildly through Sherlock’s release and then feel of liquid heat as the doctor’s body shuddered violently around him as John’s own climax over took him moment later.

Sherlock’s mind raced to store the data, but couldn’t keep up.

The sensory overload was simply too much...

Simply too much...

Too much…

Too…

<><> 

“Welcome back, you.”

As John’s mind came back online he realized Sherlock’s had gone totally off. He rose on rubber legs. He somehow managed to get to the bathroom, wet a flannel and got them both cleaned up. The fire was dying down, but he simply could not have moved another muscle. He turned on a side lamp, then used his last bit of energy to pull a blanket from Sherlock’s bed to cover them. John laid comfortably slightly on top of Sherlock, yet off to the side, his back to the sofa and waited, his fingers played with the dog tags.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open slowly. Nothing John had ever imagined, ever dreamed could have prepared him for the sight of those beautiful now grey-green orbs hazy in afterglow as they slowly focused on his presence, then showered him with so much unabashed joy at the sight of him.

“So that was not one hell of a wet dream.” Sherlock kissed John’s forehead, his voice an amused rumble. 

“Only a wet dream come true.” John kissed the genius' shoulder.

“Sentiment.” Sherlock sniffed with mock disdain.

“Damn. And here I thought you’d awaken waxing prurient sonnets in proper hexameter to me.” John chuckled low.

“Nope.” Sherlock popped the p, “In much too languid a mood for a sonnet prurient or proper. Though I could probably concoct a limerick, that’s all about you and your big dick, and how being crass, feared it big for my arse, but enough lube will always do the trick.” Sherlock deadpanned.

“Oh you silver tongued git!” John snorted.

“Would you like more poetry John?”

“Sure, if you’ve got it.” John grinned as he enjoyed this surprisingly smutty mouthed post coitus Sherlock.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I can think to say at the moment.” Sherlock purred and something in John shivered delightfully in promise.

“Yeah, and what’s that?”

Sherlock lifted John’s head with a finger, luminous greens locked on fathomless blues, before he lowered his head for a deep soulful kiss.

“Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from David Gray "Babylon"


	59. And I Caused Nothing But Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft opened John’s file. Separated them into pre-bound stacks and indicated each. “These are the ones where your name came up organically. These are the ones I actively had you put in. These are the ones Thorpe did without my sanction before and after Tbilisi when I had Thorpe pulled as I learned he was still sending you out. And these? These are the ones you did to yourself after I sent Thorpe to the ends of the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then there were two...

_Seven months previous…_

Sherlock sat silently as he waited in Mycroft’s office at the Diogenes Club. The foot of his crossed leg tapped the air idly.

Mycroft sat calmly at his desk and pulled out his pocket watch to check the time: 0957.

_Close enough._

He signed another document, handed it to Anthea. The eyes of his PA travelled over the several folders stacked on his desk with trepidation before they met his in question. He had her come in at ridiculously early hours to compile the information for him. She knew exactly what information the folders contained. In fact, she has learnt far more about the men that sat on either side of the desk, plus Doctor John Watson than she ever imagined. What she had imagined she knew, what she had guessed was a far sight short of the evidence in front of her. It is in the slight tremble of her hand as she took the signed documents and nodded once in return to the single nod of his response to her unasked question.

_Yes, I’m sure I want to do this._

Her head lowered even as her eyes slid over to Sherlock. Mycroft knew his brother had immediately deduced she knew. Sherlock’s nod to her was curt as she passed.

_She’s only had a couple of hours in vicious crash course of all sins Holmes and Watson. She’ll be good once she’s had a couple of days to digest all of it._

Both men look up as she gasped at the opened office door to reveal one Captain John Hamish Watson who stood there. His hands in the pockets of his favored hunting jacket and looked for all the world as though prepared for war.

_I suppose he is in a way, because this IS going to be a battle._

“Anthea” Watson walked past.

“Watson.” She closed the door behind her as she left.

“Because where else would I be?” Sherlock glanced at the man. Mycroft could see his brother was not happy about John’s appearance, but he was not surprised. He was still tense, but something in him shifted at the man’s presence. Something in John’s stance as he approached the desk also shifted as he laid eyes on Sherlock.

_They’ve had sex. About damn time. Watching the two of them dance longingly around each other was getting tiresome._

“Exactly.” John’s lip quirked at Sherlock as he unzipped his jacket, dropped across the arm of the club chair opposite the genius. He then sat and folded his hands in his lap. The only sign of his trepidation was his left pinky that twitched as his eyes fall to Mycroft at last, “Shall we do this?”

“How did you know Sherlock was with me?”

“He left our bed this morning.”

“How is that even rel…” Mycroft began then stopped as he realized no one in the room had so much as blinked at the ease of which John dropped that tidbit.

“You’ve never shared his bed.” Sherlock purred as he shifted in his seat to make his implications clear.

“A grand diminutive of Richard, rhymes with limerick?” John grinned at Sherlock in stage whisper.

_Did Sherlock just flush?_

“Oh for God’s sake!” Mycroft groaned.

_I did NOT need to know that._

“He started.” John pointed at Sherlock.

“On the sofa.” Sherlock pointed at John.

Mycroft knew Sherlock could read him well as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

_Oh you’re enjoying this aren’t you? I’d be more upset if I could not see the underlying happiness within you, Brother Mine._

“I’m guessing by the folders on your desk he’s requested to know everything you’ve had to do with me since last night he discovered he was missing information. I figure since it’s about me I should know as well.” John finally brought his juvenile tendencies under control to answer the question.

_Finally!_

“Why?” Sherlock asked, though Mycroft suspected his brother already knew the answer.

“So when he _decks me_ he’s doing so for the right reasons.” He answered anyway.

“He is not going to deck you….” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I assume you have Petrushenka’s transcript?” John said with deadly calm, his left pinky no longer twitched.

_Shite._

Mycroft dug through Petrushenka’s folders in the center of his desk, found the Tbilisi transcripts, found the words he knew John wanted Sherlock to read and handed it to Sherlock. 

> _[Moran the bastard made a crack about manners and_ wouldn’t I like to hear from my favorite John _, then removed the gag. I could tell Watson had been gagged for hours by the lines in his face and the drool. Still, the first words out of Watson’s mouth once the gag came off: “I am going to fucking kill you.”_
> 
> _Moran had grinned at that, told Watson “Better men than you have tried, oh but I do wish you luck in your efforts.” He then told Watson that he couldn’t wait to have him tattooed to sell him. He insinuated some his clients liked older men and soldiers. His words were along the lines of “mature meat” and “military cut.” Sebastian was being flippant to try and rattle Watson, but I knew he meant it. White, blond, handsome, soldier? Moran would sell him and watch as he was raped by the highest bidder._
> 
> _John, I think he, I think he saw my face and knew that was not an idle threat. But it’s_ John _. He does not scare that easy. My past be damned; John would let himself be raped repeatedly if it spared me giving myself once. And I want to say that it was because it was me, but no, that is who he is._
> 
> _John just looked at Sebastian and told him “If that was supposed to shock or cower me, you really do not know me. Oh but I do wish you luck in your efforts.”_
> 
> _I panicked a little at that. It was not wise to goad Moran._
> 
> _“John that was a promise, not a threat.” I tried to warn him._
> 
> _“So was what I said to him.” Captain John Watson looked me straight in the face and laid down what I called_ John Absolute _. It’s a way he says certain things where you know, he means it to his absolute core. This was one of them. One of those two was going to die. And for the first time since Moran captured me I felt like I just might come out of this alive and whole. I put my money on my husband. I am sitting here and Sebastian Moran is dead. I saw the pictures of what John did to him. Believe me Sebastian Moran got off lucky because Watson was hurt. That is_ John Absolute _.]_

“ _That is John Absolute_.” Sherlock whispered as he closed the file and held it in his lap. “I’ve see that.”

“John Absolute. You saw the pictures of Moran, Sherlock. Watson IS going to hit me over this someday. The same way you hit decked me over John.”

Watson’s brow went up, but he said nothing.

Mycroft knew Sherlock was considering his firsthand knowledge of what Watson’s hands can do.

“One hit, John. Only ONE.” Sherlock’s eyes glanced over John in acceptance of the inevitable and then to Mycroft in warning “And you will do nothing to him. Nothing, Mycroft.”

_Like it or not, he’s saved my life for you. He’s earned more than one hit and I would have taken the beating for you. But since you’ve limited to only ONE, he better makes sure it’s a good one._

Mycroft noted John did not respond to Sherlock’s dictate. Watson studied the folders on the desk. Mycroft could see the questions forming and waited for it.

“Mary, Sherlock and I each have red banded files.” John looked at the folders on Mycroft’s desk then at Sherlock, “Unsanctioned missions. A lot of them by the size.”

It was not a question, Sherlock did not answer.

Mycroft watched the eye play between the two. Sherlock knew Watson had a red banded file; Watson did not know Sherlock had one until now. John's look was not accusatory and Sherlock's was not guilty. Neither of them were angels, not by a long shot. John gave a curt nod in understanding.

Mycroft touched three of the folders. John’s was heaviest, then Rosamund, then Sherlock’s. “These are your official public military records. Sherlock’s is thinnest because _he_ does not have a military record.”

“Got it. _Sherlock_ does not, but _Tobias Gregson_ does. Met him once.” John nodded. Mycroft arched a brow at Sherlock who said nothing.

Mycroft indicated three other folders. “These are your unofficial military missions, but still sanctioned by the government. Rosamund’s is heaviest here because most of her work was, by its nature, off record.”

Mycroft then touched the three red banded folders “And these are the missions for each of you that no one, including the government and Her Majesty will ever acknowledge knowing about anything about. Rosamund’s was the heaviest file until… ”

“Until you and Thorpe got hold of Watson?” Sherlock supplied the ending.

Mycroft opened John’s file, then separated them into four pre-bound stacks and indicated each. “These are the ones where your name came up organically. These are the missions I actively had you put in. These are the ones Thorpe did without my sanction before and after Tbilisi. I had Thorpe pulled when I learned he was still sending you out. And these? These are the ones you did to yourself after I sent Thorpe to the ends of the world.”

Mycroft noted Sherlock quirked a brow at that last stack, while John looked away.

“My worst enemy has always been myself.” John bit his lip.

Mycroft glanced at the stack under his hand as he thought about its content and then glanced at his brother, a split second’s reminiscence of the battered face.

_Truer words have never been spoken._

“Sherlock you were correct regarding the life expectancy of some soldiers that day you hit me. I will admit, I tried to get Watson killed by proxy while he was out there. You would not have been happy had he died, but until Tbilisi you would not have blamed me. But as I said in Tbilisi, Captain John Watson is one very resilient man.”

Sherlock reached for the folder that contained Watson’s missions which Mycroft had sanctioned. John put a hand out and stopped him.

John sat forward in his chair “Before you open that Sherlock, think about it. Notice I have not reached for your red banded file. I understand it means you have done bad things. Some very bad. I ask you this: if some of your missions were anything like some of mine, do you really want to know the details of anything I am not willing to tell you in person - yet?”

Sherlock froze and looked hard at John whose finger was twitching again. Sherlock glanced at Mycroft who could see the pain as some of Sherlock’s missions flashed in the younger Holmes’ mind in minute tells only he, and perhaps John, could read.

Sherlock dropped back in his seat as though the file suddenly burned him though he had not touched it. John’s brow went up, he understood the significance of Sherlock’s reaction to his words.

_No, you do not want to read all of what John has done any more than you want John to read all of yours, Brother Mine. But I would have let you both do it. Let you both read your respective sins._

“Ask and I’ll tell you, anything you want to know.” Sherlock acquiesced “You’re right. Knowing the bitter details of each is not necessary.”

“All I need to know from you right now, Sherlock, is did you know your brother was trying to kill me by proxy?”

_No he did not; not at the beginning._

“My brother put a man with PTSD back into a military hot zone. I understood it was not going to be sunshine and roses for you. I thought you left me, abandoned me. I was angry with you, hurt by you more than just physically. Yet I could not exact revenge on something I myself did not attempt to negate to begin with. You agreed to Mycroft's banishment, you left, whatever emotional torture you put yourself through because of it I thought was punishment enough. I kept Molly and Greg on censure, not asking about you and they learned to not volunteer. At some point I learned from Lestrade you had done the same I felt the block of you justified. I can admit it now, I was being petty. I did not care to know anything else, I did not look into your well-being for myself. You know me I operate on data, had I looked I would have known. Had I known I would have done something. I chose not to know. And what I did not specifically ask for, Mycroft did not volunteer. That has always been the way between us. So did I know explicitly that he was volunteering you for multiple unsanctioned suicide missions? I had not asked yet, so no.” Sherlock admitted. “But then Tbilisi happened.”

_He’s correct, he never asked, not once until Tbilisi. That was the turning point._

Sherlock turned in his chair so that he faced the doctor and took the hand with the pinky that twitched in his.

_John is letting him. That is something._

“What I went through was nothing compared to what you endured in those few days in Tbilisi. What Moran threatened to do to you? What his people actually did? It by far out stripped anything that happened before. I did not know it was you I shot at in the stairwell. Mycroft made me realize it was you who saved me. You could have left my doppelganger to burn, but you didn’t. You didn’t know it was me. You saved your enemy. It reminded me of who you are as a person at your core. It reminded me of how badly I missed you. So for the first time I asked him about you. Without knowing all the details, I simply bade him to stop. Mycroft had asked me if I wanted him to pull you out.” Sherlock guiltily stopped at that.

John looked at Mycroft and blinked surprised.

_Yes, I asked him, not the other way around. And I would have done it only for him._

“So what the hell happened?” He asked as he slowly looked to Sherlock again.

“I failed you, John. I did not listen to my heart then that nearly screamed that I wanted you home. I did not know until last night of the details between the two of you. I did not know he threatened to kill you if you came near me again. As far as I knew you left me by your own volition. I wanted you to want to come back to me that way. Not because I ‘fetched’ you. I let my own pride, my own negligence of not keeping tabs on you myself, leave you there. I was back at Baker Street when I finally heard your message to me. So much time had passed I did not know what to do, I was conflicted myself and thus I did nothing. Again, I failed you I am sorry.”

Mycroft saw the barely restrained hurt that crossed John's face as he slowly extricated his hands from Sherlock’s grasp, stood and walked to the fireplace.

Mycroft saw the same hurt that flashed across he brother’s features by John’s walking away, but he knew Sherlock understood John needed a moment to work it out.

_This thing between them is too new, too fragile. Neither one can push the other too hard right now._

“You thought I abandoned you without a good-bye so you did not reach out to me. After what I had done to you, when you did not reach out, I thought you hated me and that I deserved it, so I did not reach out.” He said after a long while. “Damn.”

“All this time wasted because of two mountains.” Sherlock agreed from his chair.

“You and I are a fucked up pair, aren’t we?” John shook his head sadly, “Were it not for…” He then turned to Mycroft who raised a brow at the sudden intensity of the doctor’s cool stare. "I'll be damned."

“What?” Sherlock noticed John’s stare at his brother.

“I’m still going to hit you someday, you son of a bitch, but thank you.” John’s voice was soft as he shook his head as though having just realized something.

“I don’t understand…” Mycroft frowned.

“You should put that on a t-shirt. Sorry.” John quipped then glanced at Sherlock abashed. “Sorry.”

_That I do understand, you little shite. Now what the hell are you on about?_

“John...?” Sherlock bit his lip to keep his own smirk in check.

_Oh, don’t you dare!_

“Sherlock - the photo Major Gregson showed me? Can you bring it up?” John asked, a certain spark of wicked humor showed in his eyes.

“I’ll be damned.” Sherlock breathed with a smile as whatever it was that John knew, dawned on him as well “Oh, I can do one better.” His eyes slowly slid from John to Mycroft as he took out his mobile, a wicked glint in his own eyes as John walked over to the desk.

_Oh they’re both smiling wickedly, this is going to be a bit not good as Watson is fond of saying._

“Yes, thank you Mycroft.” Sherlock's voice was honey as he showed Mycroft the photo on his phone.

_So the captain figured it out before the genius. Of course. Matters of the heart – still not his strong suit – especially when it’s his own._

> Sherlock had all but moved in with Mycroft after the amputation. He was there to help, to push, prod on rare occasion coddle. In his own world of simply trying to learn how to stand, how to move, how to live again with one leg it took a while for Mycroft to pay attention to the underlying moroseness that permeated his brother’s being. Mycroft realized the problem when Sherlock played the exact same musical piece for six days straight. He recognized it as _My Soldier’s War_. Sherlock missed John to his core, it was killing him.
> 
> When Mycroft was finally allowed to start working again, he received the reports where Watson took suicide mission on his own. Watson had done to himself what Mycroft had done to him the first couple of years. John missed Sherlock to his core and it was killing him.
> 
> Mycroft saw firsthand what a wreck John became with Sherlock’s death. He did not want to think about a grieving Sherlock spiraling out of control if John had died, given the state of mind his was in at the time. If Watson was subconsciously trying to kill himself, let him; Mycroft did not care about John, but he loved his brother. He knew it would take John to save Sherlock, so he would try to save John. Mycroft knew if the two could be in each other’s presence it would bring them both down from their edges.
> 
> He did not know how close John had come to losing the shoot out until later, but he had won. When his operative suggested the beach and John jumped at the opportunity it was a godsend. Mycroft could have had any of his minor operatives do the recon job. He sent Sherlock who needed the break away from his brotherly duties of taking care of him.
> 
> Mycroft knew John had not seen Sherlock. He would not have been able to have hidden that. Conversely, Sherlock had given Mycroft the plethora of photos taken on his target, yet had given no hint whatsoever at having at least seen John, when clearly he had.

Mycroft heard John’s quick intake of breath behind him. Apparently this was a photo he had not seen.

Even scarred, Captain John Hamish Watson cut one impressive figure rising out of the Caspian Sea, one hand slicking back his hair, the morning sun reflecting off the glistening drops on his well-toned body.

Mycroft inwardly groaned as _limerick_ flashed across his psyche.

_Oh damn you both!_

“You’re welcome.” Mycroft waved the photo away as though annoyed as his own deductions came forth. “I’m guessing that’s when Gregson made his appearance?”

He caught John's slight flush as the doctor glanced at Sherlock.

_Ah, I was correct, John could not hide it. The operatives were gone by then. He had seen Sherlock, just not at the beach. Sherlock came to him afterward._

“Careful, Mycroft, John may start to think you actually like him.” Sherlock gave his brother a knowing look as he and Watson walked to the front of the desk again. Mycroft’s face quickly gave his thought on that possibility.

“I am fairly certain that won’t stop him from decking me regardless.” Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“That’s correct.” John admitted with a slight shrug. “When you least expect it…”

John and Sherlock looked at the files and then at each other. Mycroft missed whatever cue they gave each other, but as one they collected all of the folders from Mycroft’s desk and calmly fed them to the shredder and then fed the shreds to the fire.

The three of them knew it was a toothless gesture at best, but it made the two men feel better.

“I’m so glad we had this discussion.” Mycroft smirked as they headed for the door a little later. “Whatever are you two going to do with the rest of your day?”

“Meet up with Lestrade. Go to dinner.” John shrugged.

“Then find inspiration to concoct another limerick regarding John’s grand diminutive of Richard.” Sherlock smirked just as Anthea passed him at the door.

To her credit she did not so much as bat an eye lash until after the door closed on them.

Then her jaw dropped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Dido "White Flag"


	60. Has Got My Mind And Body Aching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything in John knew, KNEW with a certainly that beautiful, green-eyed, curly haired monster before him planned this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No reason, just wanted to do one more smut before I close out.  
> And then there was one...

_Five months previous…_

_**“No….”** _

“Sherlock…?”

John is half awakened when his partner jostled.

**_“{Must not be caught… must… get to John}”_ **

“Sherlock.”

John woke fully when Sherlock let out a long moan then doubled over and writhed in the pain of his nightmare. John eased up in their bed. He knew better than to touch him - yet.

“Sherlock!”

 _“ **NO!”**_ Sherlock roared as he bolted upright swung out and shouted in Serbian. John barely leaned out of the way in time to avoid the full impact of a flying elbow, but it did connect.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock spun to the voice, his eyes wild, his present world unseen.

“Sherlock. It’s John… It's John.” He held out non-threatening hands. 

 _“J-John…?”_ His eyes turned distraught, but still unseeing.

“Yes ‘Lock it’s John.”

_“I’m sorry...I’m sorry…John… I failed you…I…”_

“You didn’t fail me. Sherlock? Nothing's going to hurt you. You’re home. I’m home. ‘Lock..?”

“’Lock…?” Sherlock repeated in a whisper, his eyes slowly focused on the man in front him.

John risked a light touch to Sherlock’s shoulder. The contact broke the spell. The next thing he knew Sherlock was wrapped tight around him, the detective’s body trembled. John slowly rocked him, held his sweat dampened curls head to his shoulder, stroked his back and whispered comfort. He felt it as Sherlock slowly calmed. He gently lowered them back down and simply hummed the first thing that came to mind until he felt the man he loves slipped back asleep and he soon followed.

<><> 

“Want to talk about it?” 

John woke to an empty bed and a flat filled with violin music. Angry violin music. He padded to the living room in pyjamas bottoms, grimaced as he recognized the music as the song he had hummed the genius to sleep with just a few short hours ago.  The soothing ballad the doctor had hummed turned into a vicious, almost mocking staccato in the musician’s hands. Sherlock’s back was to him, but John knew he had been noticed as the melody somehow became more discordant now that there was an audience.

John put the kettle on, then leaned against a counter, watched Sherlock’s form, how his dressing gown jerked with his movements as he abused his violin.

_Talk to me, ‘Lock. I know you heard me._

“Sondheim John?” Sherlock said after while, took what should have been a lovely note that lingered, but instead brought the bow across the strings in a sharp jerk at the very end. He saw as Sherlock winced slightly at the off sound.

John reached around and turned the stove off.

_You never play a flat note by accident._

“It was appropriate to how I was feeling at time.” He walked over to the man. “As what you’re doing is appropriate to how you’re feeling at this time.”

“What do you know of what I’m feeling?” Sherlock snarled.

John heard the menace in that question as Sherlock lifted his bow to play again.

_You forgot? I don’t scare that easy._

“What do you want from me ‘Lock? If it's mine to give it's yours.”

Whatever Sherlock had been about to play next halted at those words. 

“John…”

His name from Sherlock’s lips was dire warning. It was a threat.

“What?”

John matched his tone in challenge.

With infinite care Sherlock put the bow and violin away. The snap of the case as it locked closed was loud in the suddenly far too quiet room. Only then Sherlock slowly turned and faced him fully.  John saw it in his eyes. He _saw_.

_Oh fuck me!_

 

> “Sherlock?"
> 
> "Hmm?"
> 
> "You ever noticed Mrs. Hudson will dust or clean things in the room that she knows we access on a regular basis and not others?” John asked one morning while getting his workout clothes together for the gym.
> 
> “What do you mean?” The consulting detective looked up from the book he was reading in bed.
> 
> “Well, she’ll dust this without a problem…” He indicated the box that held their watches, clean from her most recent foray into their room.
> 
> “But almost never this…” he indicates another box that held their _toys_. He ran a finger across proving his point.
> 
> Sherlock grinned at the implications of the two closed boxes. “I’ve noticed. What makes you ask?”
> 
> “Only that this was recently cleaned, and it’s never been accessed before.” John indicates another container.
> 
> “It wasn’t Mrs. Hudson who cleaned it.” Sherlock returned his eyes to his book.
> 
> “Oh. Is this to be accessed sometime soon?”
> 
> Sherlock stretched cat like and gave a Cheshire smile, “Maybe…?”

John knew exactly what Sherlock wanted. Knew what Sherlock needed. He knew it was going to get him hurt.

He did it anyway.

_In for a pence..._

“You know what, Sherlock Holmes? You know what? Fuck. You.”

Sherlock bared his teeth.

_...in for a pound._

John back handed Sherlock with a sharp crack that hurt his own hand and _hauled arse_.

John knew he could not out run Sherlock's long limbs. He had counted on the element of surprise giving him the few seconds he needed. Still he had to slam the bedroom door in the enraged man’s face to slow him down knowing Sherlock had to stop short or risk slamming into the door. And wasn't  _that_ a great memory to invoke!

_Oh God am I going to pay for that!_

From his side of the door John heard Sherlock as he breathed hard; as he tried to rein in his fury. It was a dangerous move, but John had did what he needed to do.

John winced in pain as his knee hit the the floor hard, just the door slammed open and hit the wall hard. It nearly shut closed in recoil, but was held open by one furious detective who filled the door frame.

_Let me be right in this. Let this be what he needs.  
_

He knew by Sherlock's changed breaths, he liked what he saw: John on one knee, head slightly bowed, the recently cleaned and oiled riding crop held out in offering.

John imagined he looked for all the world like a half-naked knight who offered his sword to his king. He knew it wasn’t quite a submissive pose, but it was in acquiescence. His muscles were taunt as he braced himself for whatever Sherlock was about to do to him.

Sherlock snatched the crop from his grip. John flinched as he dropped his hands to his side.

“Do you know what you’re doing, _John_? What you're offering, _John_?”

The way Sherlock spat his name, as though it were a curse - both an epithet and invocation - he felt his flesh goose-bump in the want and the fear of it.

_No. Yes. Maybe?_

He had never heard Sherlock’s voice in this timbre before. John was as turned on as he was afraid, he shook his head and then nodded. He had not trusted himself to speak.

The riding crop slid across his clavicle then lifted his head by under the chin until he looked into eyes so dark by blown pupils only the outer rim was still crystalline green as they commanded him.

“Use. Words.”

“Yes.”

The hand was as fast the hiss it evoked as the riding crop struck a nipple.

_Christ!_

“Yes.. _what_?” Sherlock invoked full imperiousness in his questioning growl.

_Shite! Sir is too much like military. I’m not calling you my master. You are as much mine as I am… oh!_

“Yes, Yours” John responded. He knew his head should probably be fully bowed, but he can't make himself do it. He needed to see this terrifying creature before him.

Sherlock arched an approving brow as he smiled slowly. It graced his patrician features in a way that did nothing to ease John’s trepidation nor tumescence as it was then John noticed Sherlock had worn nothing under his dressing gown which had opened in the short chase. The exposed cock as hard and angry its master. John looked at it hungrily.

_But that is not what Sherlock needs now._

“No, _mine own_.” Sherlock use the crop to lift his eyes again as if he had read John's thoughts. “Eyes only on mine - strip and stand.”

John pushed his pyjamas over hips, stood and let them drop, then kicked them aside. His eyes not leaving Sherlock’s, as he ended in parade rest when done.

“Red. Yellow. Green. Understand mine own?”

John nodded, heard the crop as it swung up and quickly said, “Yes, Yours.”

He exhaled when the crop stopped. Then hissed as the crop slapped down on his semi-hard penis immediately followed by a soft tender stroke. His head swam in the opposing sensations.

A dark brow arched in query as John licked his lip, eyes focused on Sherlock again. “Green, Yours.”

Sherlock ran the crop across John’s body, alternated between hard taps and soft strokes. His breath gasped, his nipples peaked, his cock went from semi to full on hard.

John bit his lip as a soft moan escaped.

“Damn. You’re so receptive… Oh, I am going to _enjoy_ taking you apart.” Sherlock threw his words back at him as the crop titillated and tortured.

Sherlock abruptly grabbed John by his hair, bent him back and kissed him deeply all the while the crop kept at it, his cock became impossibly harder.

Body still held taunt at parade rest he could not stand properly, yet he knew better than to lose his balance. His back was arched so he had no choice but to arch up into the kiss that was stealing his air.

Just as he thought his legs were about to give he was just as abruptly shoved forward towards the bathroom door frame. He grabbed it just in time to keep from falling out of the room. 

John heard the crop as it swished through the air. Knew Sherlock was testing swing clearance.

_Leave the door open? My body can sway, it should hurt less, but..._

Somehow he knew he could not allow his feet to cross that threshold.

He closed the door and stretched his arms out to the frame, his head rested against the door. It was near silent as all John heard was Sherlock’s slow measured breaths in contrast to his own rapid shallow ones. Knew Sherlock had to see the pulse that hammered in his neck, his knuckles white in the tight grip of his fingers on the frame.

“You’ll get twenty strikes which you will count out. Now why twenty?

He felt Sherlock’s breath on his neck, felt the man's body heat so close to his, yet nothing else as he spoke.

_Is it possible to come just from the sound of someone's voice?_

“Two strikes for both of us for each of the almost five years we’ve been apart, Yours?”

“Oh, very good!” Sherlock raked his nails hard down John’s back.

_Damn that feels good._

“Get ready…”

_How does one get ready for a whipping?_

He stood and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

_What the hell was Sherlock waiting f…?_

Whoosh!

_SHITE!_

The crop cracked in the air and John’s nostrils flared at the sudden sharp pain that then spread like fire across his back.

“One!” he remembered to count.

Whoosh! “Two!”

Crack! “Three!”

Smack! “Four!”

Soon the only sounds were John’s as he grunted, Sherlock's as he hissed through his teeth, the “whoosh” and "swish" of the crop as it swung in the air and the slapping sound as it connected with John’s body.

_Sherlock needs this. Needs to know he has control. It’s not me he’s beating, it’s them._

John fought the urge to cry out, to arch his back or otherwise move in response to the pain except to grunt. He closed his eyes, took the hits and counted.

_Because I’m his._

Then he realized he needed this as well. He needed to be reminded on a physical level what he already knew in his heart in his soul.

Somewhere around the fourteenth strike he felt the shift and then he did cry out -- in pleasure.

_Because he’s mine._

“Still with me? Mine own!” The command was soft, but a command nonetheless as it pierced through John's hazed mind.

“Yours always…”

“You stopped counting.”

“Counting…? Oh…out loud... I’m sorry Yours Always... Eighteen.”

Whoosh!

“Nineteen!

Whoosh!

“Twenty!”

Sherlock then ran a harsh hand down his back setting the welts newly afire. John sagged to his elbows against the door. Sherlock grabbed him by his hair again, the crop pointed to the floor as he was ordered to kneel, knees apart away from the door.

“How close are you, mine own?” Sherlock used the crop  to play with John's cock.

“So close, Yours Always.” John started to reach for it when a harsh strike from the riding crop stopped him.

“No.” Sherlock's voice had again dropped to a level that made John flinch in more desire.

“No?” John could not have cared less that he whined.

“Do NOT release before I give you permission, mine own.” The threat was clear.

“But Yours!” His cock leaked, the need to touch himself, his need to seek some friction was made all the more acute in the denial.

“Touch _nothing_. Hands behind your back, now!” Sherlock snapped. It was that voice again, John automatically complied, palms faced out, thumbs locked, right hand over left.

“Try to relieve yourself in any way and I will make it worse.”  Sherlock warned and left the room. “I’ll be right back.”

“Yours!” John hissed beyond frustrated, but did as ordered.

“Sorry, this wasn’t planned or I would have had it in the room. Luckily I know a doctor nearby who keeps first aid at the ready.” Sherlock returned a few minutes later with a warm wet flannel, a dry one, creams, paracetamol and water.

_Aftercare. So he’s done._

John downed the painkillers and water as Sherlock tended his back.

“Mostly surface abrasions, only broke the surface in one place, but you won’t scar.” Sherlock kissed the spot in question as he finished up, then stood and held out his hand to John who took the assist and rose.

“Love, you do remember that 1, I am a doctor? 2, I am someone -who like you- has a pretty good grasp on what _this_ feels like…?” John laid a tender hand on the scar that wrapped around to Sherlock’s waist. They both knew first hand the feel of tearing flesh.

“What did you just say?” Sherlock blinked hard.

“1, I’m a doctor…?”  John repeated slowly, unsure where this was going.

“No, no, no. - just before that.” Sherlock gripped him by the shoulders his flashing green eyes stared intensely into John’s deep blues.

John thought for a second then broke out in a shy smile.

“ _Love_ , you do remember that 1, I am a doctor? 2, I am someone -who like you- has a pretty good grasp on what _this_ feels like? and 3, I love you. God, you do know that last one most of all, yes...?” John reached up and brushed away an errant dark curl from Sherlock's brow, wincing slightly from the motion.

“You, you’ve never said the actual words before, John. You say it all the time in your actions. Or you’ll say how you love something I’ve said or done, but ….” A different warm light shone in Sherlock’s eyes as his long fingers combed through John’s hair.

“But hearing the actual words said is very nice. Christ, I love you so very much, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. How - why did you let me get away for so long without saying it?” John marveled at that himself, as he saw Sherlock’s reaction.

_Look at what saying it has done for you. I will say it every damn day._

“The letter.” Sherlock half-shrugged as though that were obvious.

“The letter? My letter?” John’s brow’s knit as it was not obvious to him.

 

> When they finally returned to Baker Street after their discussion with Mycroft on their respective pasts. Sherlock went straight to his chair for the letter and read it again. The looks that passed over his face as he read, made John curious.
> 
> “It’s been nearly five years. I was in such a state when I wrote it. I honestly do not remember much of what I wrote. Going by Elena’s statement, your reaction at its existence and last night...” He watched Sherlock’s tender smile. “May I read it?”
> 
> Sherlock was about to hand him the letter, the but suddenly held the pages to his chest.
> 
> “Someday soon, yes. I, I kind of want to be selfish for a bit and enjoy them for myself. Is that okay?” Sherlock smiled tremulously, his fingers touched the pages as they were the most precious thing in life. “Promise me you won’t read it before I’m ready to show it to you?”
> 
> “Why?”
> 
> “John promise me. Please? It will be worth it - the wait.”
> 
> "Okay, I promise."

The curiosity drove him crazy the first couple of weeks. Especially since Sherlock left the letter out in the open, folded on the side table near his chair, but John persevered. Nearly two months later he has kept his promise.

John sighed and shook his head as he picked-up his pyjamas bottom and pulled them on. He hissed loudly at the slight friction against his cock. “Fine, I'll read it later. Don’t think I forget how this got started. I’m going to make us some tea. Want to talk about why you were butchering Sondheim, now?” 

<><> 

“I just wanted it to be over, John. Serbia was the last piece of the puzzle. The last strand of Moriarty’s web. I was so tired. Just wanted to come home to London, come home to you. I rushed in with half information, did not do a full reconnaissance and by the time I realized my mistake it was too late, I was captured. They had me for two months. They couldn’t break me, but there was one. I never learned his name, but he enjoyed saying mine. He liked that I challenged him. Resisted him. He loved that I escaped. Gave him and excuse to be _less lenient_ with me. As though an excuse was needed for a sadist like him. He had a way of touching me, stroking me, that made me want to flay my own skin, be a modern day Saint Bartholomew.”

Sherlock had shuddered in memory as he laid in John’s arms on the sofa. John stoked his back as the words finally tumbled out about his torture in Serbia. Words that had John near tears at some point.

Sherlock’s torturer reminded John a lot of Louie and the doppelganger in Tbilisi that had tortured him. They had certainly enjoyed themselves.

“When they recaptured me the beatings became more severe. The torture more brutal. Yet, I somehow escaped again. I was weaker, more tired, more sleep deprived - that was his thing, sleep deprivation - well one of them. I learned from others I was his favorite whipping boy in more ways than one. I knew. _Knew_ I would die if I was captured once more, if HE got hold of me once more. I ran. I ran until my ankle gave out, I heard the pop, felt the pain, but what could I do? I tried to keep running. I kept telling myself “They must not capture you again.”, “You have to get back to John.”  “You can’t fail John.”"

Sherlock’s voice was barely above a whisper.

_God! Look at what you went through for the love of me and look at how I repaid you, my love. No, Watson, dive into your own guilt and morass on your own time. This time is for Sherlock._

“I was gone for a third night when they finally caught up to me. I just fell to the ground, exhausted, prepared to die, I had failed you. But they were not through with me. The look on his face when they chained me up that last time. I saw my death John. He knew. The bastard knew he had me. Worse, he knew I knew. Even so, I could not stop myself for hurling all the deductions I could at him. Then his boss walked into the room, said nothing, took a seat, put his feet up and watched. I hung there, suspended from chains on opposite walls, no longer able to support my own weight and he fucking watched me get beat for nearly half an hour. Watched the pipe connect and crack my ribs! And yet I was so _grateful_ to hear his voice when he finally spoke and I realized it was him, John! So grateful! On the plane back to London he held me in his arms as I sobbed.”

John had known Mycroft rescued Sherlock from Serbia. He had not known the Iceman had watched as his brother was tortured. Yet, he was not at all surprised. Nor was John surprised that Mycroft held his baby brother as he sobbed. John had personally heard the panic in the Iceman’s voice to keep Sherlock from being shot after Magnusson. Saw the depth of Mycroft’s care on the plane when Sherlock was being exiled and sent to his death. John couldn’t tell if Sherlock shook with now anger or relief, but his entire body trembled in the memory. John held him tighter, whispered tenderness until the tremors subsided and Sherlock sat up at last.

“It's why my nightmares are always in the dark or the night. Always running through something. Always a searchlight shining into the trees or something bright exposing me. Always the gunfire at my feet because they saw me limping. The soldiers surrounded me. All these rifles aimed at me. And always I wake up just before he lays his hands on me. And I again think if I had just fought a little harder. Been a little healthier. Were I not in chains. All the things that we tell ourselves as victims until we believe in ourselves and become survivors. And after each nightmare I think I’m going to be fine. That it’s done. That it’s deleted and can't haunt me anymore, then another night like last night happens and then, and then I need _release_. Because I don’t have an immediate outlet it usually takes days for this feeling to dissipate and I'm shite to be around. But you _knew_ , John. This time you knew exactly what I needed and _you let me_. _”_

“And what part of _I love you so very much_ was misunderstood?” John stroked his arm.

Sherlock stood, pulled John with him and headed towards the chairs by the fireplace. John had automatically angled for his chair, but Sherlock gave him a not so gentle shove that landed John in Sherlock’s chair instead as he dropped to his knees in front of John.

“You can read the rest at your leisure another time, but I need you to read from here, then you’ll understand why I had you wait.” He opened the letter and handed it to John indicating where to start, then sat on his heels and waited.

“ _“Notice that I have not said or written those three important words here. After all of this, the first time those words come from me should not be in print - you deserve to hear them face to face. So you can hear and see the truth of them and never doubt them.”_ _”_ John read his words aloud, smiled as he understood at last.

_If I had read the letter back then I would have known I needed to say them instead of the words coming me naturally. You needed to know I wanted to say those words to you on my own, not because I was prompted, but because I wanted to say them. And you waited for them. You crazy man, you waited nearly two months. Waited for me to say them to your face._

Sherlock raised a finger to John’s lips, stopped him from reading any further. John folded the sheets carefully and put them aside. Sherlock took John’s hands in his.

“I hear them at last, John. I see the truth in them and I will never doubt them. Now hear my words. See the truth in them and never doubt them. I love you, John Hamish Watson.” He rose on his knees and kissed John deeply.

“Trust me?”

_Of course... Wait… “Trust me?” Why….? Oh…_

“Do you trust me, mine own?” Sherlock dangled a pair of handcuffs from his index finger. John had not bothered to ask by what magic they appeared.

He took a breath as both heads in this case immediately gave consent. He held his hands out wrists together. “Green, Yours.”

“I only need one _for now_.” Sherlock cuffed John’s right hand to the arm of his chair.

John licked and then bit his lip in anticipation, he knew what it did to Sherlock, his eyes on the mutual consent given by Sherlock in immediate response to his. John used his legs and pulled Sherlock closer, for a kiss.

“Oh you are so good to me! So good, mine own! But no, you gave of yourself already, my turn to give.” Sherlock pulled away, his eyes lit with mischief.

“Then show me how good I am, Yours Always, and finish me.” He lifted his hips to Sherlock in an invitation that could not be refused.

Sherlock tugged John's pyjamas down, opened his mouth and took him in. John’s head fell back with a sigh as he was swallowed down. He gave himself up to the sensation as Sherlock played with him skillfully. Already close, he felt the pressure build.

His head snapped up as he heard the door downstairs open and close. His mind raced as he heard footfalls that rapidly climbed the seventeen steps.

_FUCK!!! It’s Greg?!_

That is when John remembered the detective inspector was supposed to come by with some paperwork on an old case Sherlock could not have been so arsed to go to NSY to sign off on. Lestrade had his own key to 221B and used them then because _someone_ had a bad habit of disengaging the downstairs bell when it irked him. John pulled at his wrist handcuffed to the chair. Everything in John knew, KNEW with a certainly that the beautiful, green-eyed, curly haired monster between his legs planned this. John’s suspicions were confirmed as he looked down to see Sherlock somehow grin with his mouth full of him as he gave not a single damn. 

Too far over the edge - neither did John.

_Oh, this is how you want to play this? FINE!_

“To whom to do I belong?” John growled ferociously. He snatched a hand full of dark curling hair with his free hand and yanked hard, pulled himself from between those luscious lips for an answer.

“Mine own! All mine!” Sherlock growled just as ferocious in response, his fingers dug hard into John’s hips.

“And to whom do _you_ belong?”

“Yours Always! All yours! I cannot claim you without you claiming me!” Sherlock’s blown pupils rendered his eyes near black, he being as turned on by John’s acceptance of this exhibitionism and reclamation of power as John was himself.

“Then claim what’s yours!”

John lifted his head and locked eyes with the stunned Gregory Lestrade who stood at the door, keys still in the lock and shoved himself into Sherlock’s waiting mouth already closing around him for a full on suck.

As everything in his pelvis coalesced. He gritted his teeth and kept his eyes on Lestrade as he moved his hips, slowly thrusting into Sherlock's mouth.

“Oh God!” he gasped, as Sherlock hollowed his cheeks, “Your mouth! So good...So… _fuuuuuucccck_!”

Fingers cruelly pulled at Sherlock’s hair which drove the genius further as John finally lost all control and with a final cry pulsed once more, nearly doubled over Sherlock with his release. Sherlock swallowed around him, as John released his grip in his hair, fell back into the and chair panted loudly.  After a few moments, Sherlock popped him out, breathless himself as he slunk to the floor. John bent forward, touched his forehead to Sherlock’s, both gasped for breath as they regained their senses.

When they finally thought to look up again, in the midst of delighted, yet wicked giggles at their behavior, the door was closed and Greg was gone.

* * *

* * *

So where do you want to go today? You have two paths to choose from with two different endings. Fret not - either ending will guide you back to this spot if you so desire.

Pick your path:  **[Ending Divergent O](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161767/chapters/28456768)** or **[Ending Divergent A](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15128975) **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Hooverphonic “Unfinished Sympathy – Orchestra Version"


	61. When You Close Your Eyes, Know I'll Be Thinking About You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we’re still burning and tumbling and coming into ourselves as individuals, but we already know how rubbish we are apart. I believe, believe with all my heart that we’ve got what it takes, we are that something strong, something solid and unique and beautiful, but only together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny thing happened on the way to the keyboard... Part Deux
> 
> In the Author Notes way back in Chapter 36 I mentioned that this story was originally supposed to end at Chapter 12; why I named the story as I did and how the characters kept talking. Here at Chapter 60, five times the original length, I finish the story at last. 
> 
> This was my first fanfic. I still have no beta so all mistakes are mine. I've learned so much, with so much more to learn still. Some of you have been on this road with me since June, some hopped on later. I appreciate all the comments and kudos. I nearly plotzed earlier this week when I realized I crossed 5000 hits. You readers have been so amazing. 
> 
> I still have the [_Office of the Gods_](http://archiveofourown.org/series/781047) series of one offs that I will be giving a little more time to it now that this tale is done. 
> 
> My sincere thanks and love to all of you for joining me on this maiden voyage.  
> InnerSpectrum

_One week previous._

Sherlock sat and listened to the beep of the heart monitor. It used to be a most galling noise before - when it was attached to him. It was the most wonderful sound in his world right then. For as long as he heard that sound, that beep, he knew John’s heart still beat, and as John’s beat - so did his own. Because John was his heart and no one ever wanted their warm heart to be attached to a frigid heart monitor. The damage to John was massive. So Sherlock sat by his side, yet again in the fruitless mental exercise of how they had got there.

He and John had worked a case involving missing diamonds. They followed up on a hunch John had with a potentially shady importer. He he pretended to peruse the wares, Sherlock had cringed at a ridiculously gaudy costume necklace when John called his name to look at  something on display near the showcase window that faced the street. He turned just in time to watched helplessly as a car careened towards John at a rapid speed. The driver, a woman had a massive heart attack, lost control of the vehicle and crashed into the window of the store. It was less than a heartbeat’s pause - just time enough that Sherlock screamed, not enough time at all for John who turned in time and saw  the danger, but was too late as he tried to dive out of the way as the car jumped the curb, shattered glass panes and Sherlock’s world into a million fragments.

John had died on the way to the hospital. For one minute and forty-eight seconds until the EMT brought him back John Hamish Watson was simply _gone_. Sherlock held John’s hand and for the first time truly understood the doctor’s anguish when after he jumped from the roof, John had reached for his hand, reached for his pulse. He then wondered how the hell John ever forgave him for letting him think he was dead those two years when he himself had nearly shut down from a mere one minute and forty-eight seconds of John’s death.

Unlike with him, initially John’s coma was induced to aid in healing. Initially. He was brought out of it five days ago only to have slipped back into one on his own. Sherlock had been here nearly every day and night for over three weeks. Mycroft, Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Harry even Wiggins and others had been a constant stream of support around Sherlock. The only time he was alone with John was in the late night/early morning hours at his behest.

A man from Southampton had gone on a killing spree for six days before he was apprehended. Lestrade had not even thought to ask for the consulting detective for his assistance. Greg knew any guilt Sherlock may have felt for those who may not have died with his help would not appease the guilt he would have felt had John awakened and he was not there. Sherlock had only left John’s side to shower and change clothes because the grimy feel of being in a sterile hospital 24/7 rattled his already frayed nerves. And yes, considering the numerous times he had been in a hospital as a visitor or as a patient he appreciated the irony of it.

There was a difference between sympathy and empathy and it’s learned at times like this. Though they were not quite as much in the public eye as they had been before _the rupture_ -what John succinctly calls their nearly five years apart, as the two years Sherlock disappeared chasing Moriarty's web is sometimes called _the fall_ \- they were still somewhat publicly known. There were smaller cases outstanding and clients were sympathetic, but business was business - they wanted theirs taken care of, and logically, Sherlock understand that. Yet he took  one look at John as he laid there and he could not possibly have cared less.  One former client who now lived in the states, sent over a sound machine. When Sherlock called to thank him and ask why, the client explain he knew what Sherlock was going through. He had used one when his wife had been in a coma a few years back.  He did not know if really worked, but what could it hurt, right? Sherlock checked with John’s doctors first, who also agreed it couldn’t hurt, so he had played different sounds over the past couple of days.

That night, to accompany the palinoia of the heart monitor, Sherlock had chosen city sounds. The type of sounds that would have been heard outside of their open window at Baker Street. Missing John's smile he pulled up the photo on his mobile and it brought a small smile to him. It was a really great picture of the two of them in their bespoke finest -John in bespoke!- that had made the paper a couple of weeks before.  They were with Mycroft at a charity auction that raised funds for homeless veterans. He remembered the exact moment the shot was taken. The concentration on his face was less about the auction and more about him not spewing his deductions to the irritating dowager who sat on the side opposite of John, because he had promised John he would behave. John somehow knew Sherlock was about to turn and let her have it. John placed a firm hand just above Sherlock's knee, his pinky stroked the inner thigh firmly. It diverted Sherlock's attention just long enough as John leaned over and whispered something decadently dirty for such a posh setting. The camera snapped as the two looked at each other while John grinned lasciviously. He remembered because John had kept the promise of those dirty words that night. A nightmare from John woke them early that next day which started out with rain and a three-hour long discussion of some painful subjects, but it had ended with a beautiful sunny afternoon and their engagement.

As Sherlock listened to the sounds and reminisced he fell into an exhausted sleep. He awakened with with his hand being held.

 _Wait...he's_ HOLDING _my hand..._

He slowly moved his hand to be sure and felt the grip on his as it tightened more.

His head popped up to see John as he smiled at him and heard the raspiest, yet most wonderful sound in over three weeks, outside of the heart monitor.

“It’s about time _you_ woke up, Love.”

<><> 

_One month ago_

“You really can’t turn it off, can you?” Molly’s jaw had dropped when John explained why they were taking a leisurely stroll for take-out at Baker Street after had been politely asked to leave the restaurant where they were set to meet for a late lunch. A bored Sherlock stage whispered at the bar as he deduced and outed two different adulterers within their respective earshot. Suffice it to say the ones that had been cheated on had not received the news well. It resulted in one cheater being on the knock-out end of a serious right hook,  while the other cheater received the traditional drink thrown in the face. Both cheaters turned on Sherlock, which of course ended with the ejection of all parties just as Molly and Greg, who were running individually late, entered.

“Though I really did not expect the drink to still be _in_ the glass when she threw it.” Sherlock’s brows knitted for a moment, then he shrugged idly, already having deleted them.

“Any wonder you had a drug problem in your twenties?” Greg shook his head.

Sherlock made a face. “I’ll always have a drug problem Lestrade. Every single day I choose not to give in to it is a victory, but the temptation is always there. Luckily I got hooked on something better.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, that comfortably held his own as they stopped on the sidewalk in front of the black door of 221B. Sherlock looked at their joined hands and softly smiled.

“I mean what else was I going to do? Join the military?” Sherlock grinned at the mock insulted look on John’s face.

“You are a ridiculous prat.” John rolled his eyes as he grinned.

The genius gazed upon him and blushed to John’s amazement.

“Yes, but I’m _your_ ridiculous prat and you love me.” Unbridled happiness sparkled in Sherlock’s eyes as he leaned towards John.

“Oh, pretty sure I can’t stand you right now.” John’s own eyes crinkled as he beamed in pleasure, his breath caught as he grasped Sherlock’s arm, the magnetic force that is his love of the man drew him closer.

“Same thing, really.” Sherlock’s breath ghosted John’s lips before his made contact.

One of the two hummed in pleasure, maybe it was both, it hadn’t really mattered.

“Uh hello? You have company…?” Greg’s gravelly voice broke into their momentary private world.

Sherlock’s eyes all but danced with mischief as he pulled himself from John’s lips with a slow head turn to Greg, his voice dropped to levels that made John's grip of Sherlock's arm tighten “You’ve witnessed worse.”

Molly giggled heartily when Lestrade turned several shades of persimmon, “Oh, I don’t think I want to know!”

“Trust me, Dr. Hooper, you do not.” Mycroft opened the door to 221B from the inside.

“Oh ho! I thought I sensed a specter’s presence.” Sherlock rolled his eyes when Mycroft stepped past them, “What the hell are you doing in our flat?”

“Having the cameras in the living room relocated to point at the doors only. It’s the only place safe from you two.” Anthea stepped out a moment after Mycroft, “We were running out of bleach for our eyes.”

Sherlock looked at Anthea, then to John and sighed heavily as he took out his wallet then handed over a couple of notes to the doctor who simply grinned. “Bleach!”

A very self-satisfied Anthea walked over to Mycroft, “Guess I’m going with you to Abu Dhabi after all. I’d purchase a bubble gum pink abaya, but I’m infinitely sure you’d find someway to spill something ruining it on purpose.”

“Actually, I’m quite astounded you are aware the color exists, let alone a specific hue thereof.” Her boss retorted smoothly.

“Speaking of spills you two may need to go sofa shopping or have your sofa reupholstered,” The saccharine had practically dripped from Mycroft as he leaned lightly on his crutch, “I don’t think Mrs. Hudson is buying the spilled olive oil - again.”

“Sherlock, you told me it was gun oil from when John was getting his weapon cleaned!” Molly squeaked.

John put his hands in his trouser pockets and looked up at the sky. Sherlock found a spot on the pavement that commanded his immediate attention. Both suddenly whistled.

“Oh for God’s sake!” Greg barked with laughter as Molly blushed.

As the elder Holmes brother made his way to the black sedan that pulled up to the curb, John watched with a doctor's approval.

_He will never have his original stride back, but this is good. Not putting a lot of weight on the crutch. He might be able to go to just using his umbrella in a few more months. Very good._

Mycroft noticed as John watched and quirked a brow.

John walked to stand in front of Mycroft, “Tick tock…”

Mycroft instinctively braced himself as John suddenly flexed in place, then grimaced when John simply stood there and smiled serenely. “Oh, were you expecting something?”

“Stop toying with the snake, John.” Sherlock warned from by the door, an amused note in his voice.

“Only yours, mine own.” John threw over his shoulder. He heard when Greg coughed and Sherlock snickered.

“Do you two ever plan on behaving like normal adults?” Mycroft groaned as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Behave? Normal? Adults?” Greg scoffed. “You _have_ met those two, yeah?”

“This one creates the need for eye bleach then bets on it; that one composes limericks on the creation for the need for eye bleach– I really wouldn’t hold out much hope, sir.” Anthea looked up from her ever present mobile.

“You know none of you are anywhere near as funny as you’d like to think you…” Mycroft rolled his eyes then froze when something caught his attention. He looked John up and down the raised a brow again. It was all minute movements the average person would have missed, but the last few months had made John very well versed in Holmes communication. He knew Mycroft saw it.

“Mycroft, when we first met _cough-kidnapped-me-cough_ you asked a question regarding what you can expect.” John smiled the smile of angels. He knew it would irk the older brother.

“You’re that sure of things, are you?” The elder Holmes challenged, he remembered and knew exactly what John meant.

_[“Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”]_

“Since nothing else about us seems to behave the way it does for most normal adults, it looks like this won’t be either. But I’ll have an announcement for you -  give me a couple of minutes.” John reached in his pocket then tossed an object in the air, his voice ended in sing-song “Oh Sherlock?”

John kept his eyes on Mycroft as he continued speaking. 

“He’s caught it and is looking at it surprised... He knows what it is, but it is going to take a moment for what it is and what it means for him to register… He’s opened it.  Now he examines it and looks to me… Now, if he hasn’t slipped into his mind palace first, he’s going to saunter over with that _I own this world_ swagger of his that drives me wild… and then…” John held out his hand seconds before he felt Sherlock surround him and placed the jeweler’s box in his open right hand. Sherlock placed his head to John's shoulder, brought his left arm up and around John, then placed his left hand on John’s chest, above his heart and pulled the doctor to him.  John felt Sherlock’s body as it vibrated with happiness, felt the barely contained excitement.  

Behind them he heard as Molly gasped.

He heard as Greg exclaimed "Whoa!"

John covered Sherlock’s hand on his chest gently with his own. He leaned back, rested against Sherlock, “Do you know what this is?”

Sherlock nodded, planted a kiss on John’s neck.

“Use. Words.”

John smiled as he felt the slight shiver that thrummed through Sherlock at the command. Knew that Mycroft saw how his brother reacted to it as well.

“You... want to marry me?”

The words fell from Sherlock’s lips in quiet, reverent wonder. As though he could not believe this has happened. Still, he is Sherlock. He stood straight and asked “Meteorite?”

John forgot Mycroft at last. Leaned his head back and looked up at Sherlock, planted a kiss on the genius’ jaw.

“Like this love of ours, no one knows where things like this come from. It simply exists. It defies the laws and ravages of time and space to get here. Like all the cold years it took us, together and apart, to get to here, to get to now. But to get here at last it first had to fall, risking everything, which you did. And then it’s had to burn not knowing what will happen in the end, which I did. It tumbles and burns. Everything that is unnecessary sloughs away, coming to the core of itself as something strong, something solid and unique and beautiful. Yes, we’re still burning and tumbling and coming into ourselves as individuals, but we already know how rubbish we are apart. I believe, believe with all my heart that we’ve got what it takes, Sherlock, that we are that something strong, something solid and unique and beautiful, but only together.” John took the trillion cut, black diamond ring set on a meteorite and platinum band from its box and held the ring out to Sherlock, “I love you, mine own - yours always. Just the two of us – and you know the rest. So, what do you say?”

He felt the sharp intake of Sherlock’s breath at his words, felt as he was pulled tighter into Sherlock’s grasp.

“Mine own, yours always – against the rest of the world?” Sherlock slipped his finger in the waiting ring. “I say _yes_. _Yes_!”

Greg whistled his approval as he held the door to 221B open for Molly who had applauded and squeaked out her own very happy “Yes!” as she entered.

Only the slight crinkling of Mycroft's eyes and the tiniest twitch at his lips showed his pleasure in the moment, not that either man had noticed or cared.

Anthea had full out beamed.

John turned in Sherlock’s arms and his own wrapped around him. Sherlock grinned at the ring on his finger, then cupped John’s face when their lips had met.

“Mycroft you might want to turn your head now, I am suddenly feeling _rather_ basorexic.”  Sherlock’s grin was downright filthy as he pulled John toward 221B following Greg and Molly.

“Are you now? I do believe the rima oris in my possession could make amazing use of such.” John had matched Sherlock’s grin with one of his own as he was pulled. He threw one last look at Mycroft before he closed the door “Later, Bro.”

<><> 

_TODAY_

Sherlock had had words prepared, but as he quickly glanced around at everyone gathered in attendance, the words vanished. He had not had cue cards to help him out. He pulled at his cuffs, gave a fleeted moment’s thought to those who were not able to be there, but then his eyes lit upon where they belonged. On the one that he loves above anyone else. On John in front of him and spoke.

“John Hamish Watson. Brother. Man. Doctor. Soldier. Blogger. My love. When you… when you thought I was dead, not too long after you went to visit my grave to talk to me. I heard you say _I was so alone, and I owe you so much_. Today… today John I say those words back to you. _I was so alone_ when you walked into the lab at St. Bart’s. My heart stopped, yet you gave me life _and I owe you so much_ for that gift. I was certain I would spend the rest of my days the confirmed bachelor merely eking out an existence doing what I love, but not having a life. I did not know what that was until you breathed it into 221B Baker Street, until you breathed it into me.

Lao Tzu, the master tactician had no defense for love - he said, "Love is the strongest of all the passions - it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart, and all the senses." We were defenseless against each other, but oh the defenses we tried, the walls we built! We did not make it easy for each other at all, did we? Both of us giving half-truths to who we are inside, too afraid to let it show outside. Oh, if there was a wrong step to be made- we stomped, a wrong word to be said- we shouted. We were such fools! Yet in spite of it all - Moriarty, the fall, Magnusson, Mary, the rupture, in spite of everything the universe threw at us, we made it. We made it!

In your letter you wrote _I will spend the rest of my life proving myself worthy_ _a_ nd now that we finally had our acts together every single day we proved our love and our worth to each other. _Just the two of us against the rest of the world_ we said.”

Sherlock took a shaky breath, looked at his love before him and smiled.

“We did not promise all happiness, all perfection, all smiles or sunshine. We did not promise that we will always do what is right, nor never be angry, nor never let clouds darken our door. What we did promise is that we will be together whatever life will bring until our deaths. We did not get the chance to marry, nonetheless - death us did part. _”_

He looked at the ring on his finger of his left hand as his right hand felt for the dog tags at his chest over his heart.

_Death, you cruel thief!_

“Can I live without you? Unfortunately, yes. Would I want to? Unfortunately, no. But I have not been given much of a choice in the matter have I? You know I am practical man, so I will live. I will grieve. However, I will not love again. I cannot expect that lightening to strike twice. I know the universe was being overly generous when it gave me you in the first. From the beginning when you slipped into my life - when I did not yet know what that kind of love was, how that kind of love felt, that someone like me could even feel such a thing or that someone would ever feel such a thing for me - I gave you every millimeter of love within me to give. Oh, how I loved you! And miracle beyond all miracles, I was loved by you in return until the end, when you held my hand that one last time in the hospital and then slipped out of my life; unlike me, never to return. I heard your words, John. I saw the truth of them. And I never doubted them.”

Sherlock had vaguely noticed as Mycroft stood off to his right side by the gleaming black headstone that still bore his own name. It was next to the gleaming pale headstone that bore John’s name. But he saw the characters in memory alone. The tears he had not allowed to fall, had clouded his vision as they fell at last.

_The light to my dark, as always. I do not know when the universe will have me by your side in death as you were by mine in life, John, but I will lay beside you again. I made sure of it._

“Though I imagine he’d like to take the words back right now, my brother once said to me _All lives end. All hearts are broken_ to which I will add: _All beginnings end_. Mine own. Your always. Goodbye, my love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Bon Jovi “Bed of Roses” 
> 
> For those of you screaming at me - I tried to warn you I did name this story _Beginnings End_ for a reason.  
>  **HOWEVER...**  
>  Though this story is finished, because the boys would NOT shut up during this process, I still other story arcs that did not make the cut for this, but really do want to be told. As such _Beginnings End_ may very well turn into a collection with alternate arcs, alternate endings where Chapter 60 did not or has not happened (yet?). We'll see...


	62. While You Listen To This Crazy Man Who Is Dying For Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He never imagined he’d be the one who outlived them all, yet here he was. The universe was funny that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, there was NOT supposed to be a Chapter 61. I was finished; except to go in and clean it up some - really I was. Then _someone_ \- well I'll use her words "But it is SO beautiful... Listening to Pandora it just popped up and it fit my memory of the ending." Unfortunately, I could not use it the way I wanted (explained in the End Notes below), so something else is used instead.

**_Epilogue_ **

It was a beautiful crisp day. London was in full autumn splendor. He idly remembered it was their favorite season as an umber leaf fell upon the head stones. It had landed first upon the light stone, then a breeze pushed it to the dark one, back to the light and then back to the dark stone again, as if it could not decide where it should be. He understood. Though they had spent more physical time apart than they had together in life, he had often addressed the pale and dark headstones as one. The way they would spend eternity - together. It was fitting.

“You would have loved the weather today.” His gravelly voice smiled in the cool air. “I know, I know - I was just here a couple of weeks ago, yet here I am bothering you again, but I found something. Technically, Anthea the new Love with her super snooping skills found it. She, Molly and I were cleaning out 221B. We had to do it personally. No one who hadn’t known you two, who hadn’t loved you two as we did could be allowed to touch your things. Decrepit as we are, we just could not let anyone else do it.  And really after all this time – who’s left?”

He leaned on his cane and ran a hand through what was left of his hair, remembered when it was dark and thick - a lifetime ago. 

“We knew you were a blogger John, but we never knew Sherlock was a poet. Anthea found this in Sherlock’s room, in your bedroom. It was with the letter you wrote him at The Rupture. By the date on it, he had written this on the tenth anniversary of your passing. It’s Sherlock’s words, but these could have just as easily been yours after The Fall so you will appreciate them.  I know you both know the words, but I feel like I have to read it out loud for the both of you. So zip it and spare an old man a moment’s fancy will you?”

He lowered himself to the ground, carefully unfolded the sheet of paper and began to read the words aloud.

“My days dream of your return  
My nightmares are of your leaving  
You entered my life full of sound  
Listened to the crazy man I am  
Then left without a goodbye

Trapped in this blood’s ebb and flow  
The eternity remains in the end  
And I miss you

It is forever winter in my soul  
There is no hope of spring  
Thanatos is a cruel thief  
To take you but leave me

As I die each day I’m living  
The eternity remains in the end  
And I miss you

What trial need I finish?  
What deadliest path by far?  
Tell me and I will take on any challenge  
If it but gains us a few mere moments more!

Tell me! I beg screaming into the yawing silence  
The eternity remains in the end  
And I miss you

I who once thought to have everything  
Find myself bereft of all  
You were our voice  
I am now the silence after your echo  
That goes on without you

Seasons come, days go  
The eternity remains in the end  
And I still miss you.”

Once he was done he refolded the paper, carefully placed it back in his coat pocket and sighed. It had been six years since Sherlock Holmes joined John. The man who once claimed he never had one, had died in his sleep of heart failure. Those who loved him understood; though his transport carried on, his heart had failed all those years ago on the day John Hamish Watson died. It had been five years since Mycroft Holmes' passed away. All who knew the man knew he died when the enigmatic, eccentric, mad genius of a man that was his brother had died, it just took a few months for his body to catch on. Not having any boys to take care of, Mrs. Hudson had held out the longest, but even she had finally joined them a few weeks ago.

He never imagined he would be the one who outlived them all, yet he was. The universe was funny that way.

“That was beautiful, Chief.” Detective Inspector Sally Donovan wiped away her tears. In the final years she and Sherlock had become friends in earnest. "He wrote that ten years later? Wow."

He knew Donovan missed the two men, but not any where near as much as the woman who stood next to her.

Molly wiped at her own tears as she offered him a hand up. “Sherlock had said at John’s funeral he would never love again and he hadn’t.”

“I know.” Chief Inspector Gregory Lestrade - Retired, grabbed his cane, rose and took his wife’s offered hand. “In order to love again he would have had to stop loving him in some capacity, and he never did.”

  
  
~ fin ~

* * *

* * *

  
You have reached the end of the original path of this story, but there is another! Find out how it goes -->  **[Divergent A](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15128975) **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Sherlock wrote above can be found here: [_The Eternity Remains_](https://wp.me/pPury-2Sd). It is an original poem by me.
> 
> For those who are maybe rereading this (THANK YOU by the way) and are thinking _wait, that's NOT the original poem used_ you are correct. Months after the fact, I learned in the AO3 Facebook group that quoting a song that is not public domain in its entirety is a HUGE absolute no-no. I was so enraptured by the song, I honestly forgot that. I had to take it down. The original poem Sherlock "wrote" was the English translation of [**"Si Volvieras A Mi" by Josh Groban**. ](https://youtu.be/96ebQ7_ha5Y) <\- this link has the song and provides the original and the translated lyrics if you want to read it. 
> 
> So for any tears you may be spilling now - you can place all the blame, and thanks, for this chapter on AMPLEWOMAN.
> 
> Chapter title is from Josh Groban “Si volvieras a mi” (English translation)”  
> Songwriters: Klaus Ulrich Derendorf / Claudia Brant / Mark Portmann


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